Echo
by ReindeerGamesBitch
Summary: Sherlock has finally admitted to needing Molly's help, but will he be able to help her in return?
1. Missing Piece

A/N - Well this is my first Sherlock fic, I hope you like it :] I should be posting the next chapter soon :]

Lemme know if you like it :]

Echo

Chapter One

Missing Piece

Sherlock stood rooted to the ground. Those big, brown eyes fixated upon his, just as they had been many times before. Sherlock however, couldn't help but think about the minute differences between the once mousy, often frightened and extremely naïve Molly to the determined woman standing before him now. The woman who was willing to do anything for him, no questions asked. The only one who could save him.

He did not understand her loyalty; he knew that he did not deserve it. The consulting detective was frequently brutally honest, to the point of cruelty and the pathologist had been on the receiving end of it on several occasions. Sherlock could not feel too much guilt however, as he had always told her the truth, no matter the subject – wasn't that the kind thing to do? Or did people prefer to be lied to, just to save their precious 'feelings'? This was why Sherlock despised emotions; they clouded judgement, making people weak and vulnerable. Yet they had brought him to St Barts – to Molly Hooper.

"What do you need?" Molly's soft voice broke through his inner turmoil. Those doe eyes were shining with such trust, such hope. He needed her.

Today couldn't have been more bizarre for Molly. She had finally mustered up the courage to have a semi-normal conversation with Sherlock, in which she managed without stumbling pathetically over her words. Sherlock had finally paid attention to her and she truly believed that she had broken through to him and showed her true self. If Molly Hooper knew anyone, it was Sherlock; and she could tell that something wasn't quite right. She wanted to help him.

Molly had been looking forward to a night in, on the couch with a bottle of red wine and Toby, but she had been held up – as she often was – by Sherlock. He had confessed that he had always trusted her and that she mattered to him; he cared about her. His gentle words had struck her, momentarily catching her off guard. She actually meant something to him. Molly Hooper had never seen this side of Sherlock Holmes. Her glee was short lived however, as his next words seemed to cause her world to crumble around her. Sherlock thought that he was going to die. Molly knew that he would not have made such a statement if it weren't true; he was actually going to die. So why was he standing in the lab waiting for her?

Molly's eyes remained fixed on his wry face. She had loved this man the moment she'd seen him. She had known that something was wrong with him for days now. Sherlock had been behaving differently, almost placid. He hadn't been his usual agitated, snappy self. He had even allowed her to get away with saying more than three words without cutting her off with his cruel, callous comments. Molly Hooper hadn't been afraid for a long while, but right now, with the most brilliant man she had ever known standing before her with tears in his eyes, she was absolutely petrified. She would do anything that he asked.

"You." Her eyebrows rose in surprise at his declaration – had she heard him right? Was this a cruel joke?

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Molly choked on the words as her heart pounded painfully in her chest. She had imagined this day; the day that Sherlock Holmes finally saw her. But imagining it and being ready for the reality are two different things. She allowed her eyes to drift downward, the penetrating gaze of his icy blue eyes disconcerting. What was happening? Molly had gotten used to his attitude, to their relationship. She had no idea how to handle him right now. "Please, Sherlock. What is going on?"

Sherlock had anticipated her bemusement; however he knew that she was the only one who could save him now. Sherlock prided himself in being able to observe the people and the places around him. He could see every detail, notice the nervous twitches of guilty individuals, tell them what they had eaten for lunch the previous day, who they had conversed with and whether they enjoyed milk in their coffee – all from one glance. Yet the great Sherlock Holmes had missed a very important detail; Molly didn't count, not to Sherlock – at lease she didn't think that she did, which meant that nobody else believed she did either, including Moriarty. She was his only hope now; she could save him without the danger of being a target. Molly Hooper was the most important part of his plan. She was the final piece of the puzzle.

"I'll explain everything later, Molly. Right now I need you to listen carefully and trust me. I need you." Molly could only nod numbly at his words. She may have been petrified, but she would have to remain strong for him.

Several hours later found Molly Hooper sat on the cold floor of the bathroom in the lab. She stared unseeing at the tiled wall in front of her, desperately trying to take in Sherlock words and somehow twist and turn them in order to find some way out. There wasn't one. He had to die – or at least die in the eyes of the press and the rest of the world – and Molly had to help him disappear. Would she ever get to see him when all of this was over? Would he return when it was safe?

He had given her precise instructions; don't be seen by anyone until the right moment and make sure that she was the one to do the autopsy. That word was still spinning around in her mind; autopsy. Of course she knew that it would not be a real autopsy, but it would still feel real, she would still have to clean him up, place the notes into the file – falsify the paperwork – and keep her eye on him while he came around from the 'fall'. Sherlock and Molly had spent a long while creating a chemical compound that would slow his heart rate and cause him to have shallow breathing; they had to convince the paramedics that he was dead so that he would be moved straight to the morgue and into Molly's safe hands.

Molly heaved a large sigh, so many things could go so terribly wrong – but she would do as instructed. Rising slowly from the floor, Molly gripped the sink as she stared at her dishevelled reflexion; this was going to be a long night. She could feel the weight of the adrenaline ampoule and needle - which she had stolen from the medicine cupboard - in her lab coat pocket. Sherlock had already helped her to type up the notes and change the time stamp so that everything was ready and in order. Now all she could do was wait for Sherlock to do his part.

Sherlock was meeting Moriarty on the roof were he would be forced to jump. Sherlock hadn't explained everything to Molly fully, he had only told her that he had many connections in the city and that he was not an amateur. He was still the same old Sherlock, mysterious as ever. Molly would have to get the information later on; if she was helping him, then she wanted to know the details.

The unsuspecting public could be heard gasping and shrieking as they watched the tall, thin man jump from the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital, his long black coat billowing gracefully before he reached the ground with a sickening thud. The commotion caught the attention of the staff and soon the man was concealed by white coats before being whisked away quickly. The only sign of the disturbing event were the blood puddles mingling with the lightly falling rain. The onlookers recognised him from somewhere, even if they couldn't quite put their finger on it.

Molly had spent the remainder of her time in the loo trying to calm her breathing and ease her mind; she had to be professional about this, she had to make sure she could help him. She needed to be brave and make sure she gave him the right amount of adrenaline and oxygen. Molly stared into the brown eyes reflected back at her, the plan continued to flit through her mind, the words he had spoken, the way his eyes shined with trust and hope; she could do this – he believed in her.

A loud bang to the door sounded making Molly jump slightly before she straightened her hair and put on a neutral expression. Quickly opening the door, Molly was met with the frantic eyes of her colleague, Samantha. "Molly, you're the only one working today, nobody else can do it, I'm so sorry." Molly had anticipated these words as she had already made sure that she was the only one on shift today in morgue.

"I know, do we have a special case or something? Is it for the police?" She questioned nonchalantly. Molly had to choose her words and deliver them perfectly; this was supposed to be a shock for her.

"Molly, it's that man, the one who comes into the lab sometimes, dark curly hair, long black coat, he's…..he's dead…" Samantha allowed her words to hang in the air as Molly allowed her eyes to fill with tears – they were not fake; she didn't need to act this part out.

Molly pushed past the other woman, "thank you, Sam," her words were broken as her throat constricted painfully. She needed to get to Sherlock to administer the adrenaline to get his heart rate back up to normal. If she administered it too late the consequences could be dire. As Molly rushed through the halls of the hospital to the morgue, she imagined how he would look, if he would still look as dapper as usual or if he would actually look dead – whatever she had imagined, it was nowhere near to what she actually saw.

As she pushed through the doors to the morgue, one solitary light was shining over his body. Sherlock was stock still and silent, blood smeared across his face and streaking through his hair. Molly's heart gave a painful lurch as she rushed over to him. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw his cream shirt torn open and the pink defibrillator pads stuck to his chest. Oh god, they had tried to shock him back to life, this was not part of the plan and the electric shock would have most certainly stilled his chemically weakened heart.

Molly pulled herself together quickly, grabbing the adrenaline out of her pocket and filling the needle. She placed her fingers over his chest feeling between the ribs before stabbing the needle into his heart and pushing the plunger down slowly. It wouldn't be enough, she would have to perform CPR and pray that it worked, and she knew it had been over three minutes. Maybe his heart was stronger and had held out long enough for her to arrive – she could only hope.

Molly began pumping his chest steadily, counting in her head as she worked her way up to 15, then without thinking she tilted back his head back and blew in one full breath before continuing with the compressions. Her hair began to loosen as she continued at a frenzied pace, her arms aching and mind reeling as she stared at his unmoving form on the metal slab.

Eyes filling with tears, Molly released a desperate groan as she leapt onto the table, straddling his hips as she slammed her fist onto Sherlock's chest. Tears now freely flowing, hair in disarray, she continued to pound her fists over his heart.

The last thing Sherlock remembered was the sound of the defibrillators as the paramedics shocked his heart, sending a painful spasm through his body before the darkness surrounded him. He had been too weakened by the chemical compound he and Molly had developed, to physically stop the unwanted assistance from the paramedics. His eyes were heavy, body cold and numb, head pounding, heart sluggish as he finally began to come around. He could not open his eyes, but he could hear quiet sobbing, and feel a slight pressure on top of his hips as intermittent pressure was applied to his aching chest.

Sherlock spluttered before taking in a large gulp of air, his body rising sharply from the metal slab as he realised what had happened. He forced his eyes open, met with the dishevelled appearance of Molly Hooper who gave a choked sob of relief. The light seemed to surround her, her dark brown eyes glistening with tears as she stared down at him, a watery smile playing across her lips. Sherlock didn't have time to react before Molly pressed her body against his and placed a chaste kiss to his cold cheek. As she pulled back Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, his fingers lifting as he tentatively touched the blood on her cheek; his blood.

Their eyes locked as Sherlock spoke, "they tried to resuscitate me. I neglected to consider that outcome. I assumed they would simply cart me away in order to stop a scene." His words were so snipped and direct that Molly was taken aback. The man before her had almost died, yet he was still the same logical, straight to the point man as before.

Molly seemed to remember herself as she felt his bare chest brush against hers, causing a red tinge to rise up her cheeks. She quickly pushed herself off him and jumped back to the floor. "How are you feeling? You may be a little out of sorts for a few hours. We should get you cleaned up, and then you can come and stay with me until the heat wears off." She didn't dare to make eye contact as she spoke softly, still mortified at being so close to the half-naked consulting detective.

Sherlock merely stared at Molly; he was still slightly confused, lungs aching and heart pounding. Had little Molly the mouse actually saved him? How had he read her so incorrectly? Perhaps he was not as perceptive as he had once believed.

"Thank you, Molly. I accept your offer. I need to stay close to John to make sure that everything goes according to plan." His tones were still clipped, his eyes still fixed on Molly as he gently eased himself to sit up. "Pass me wash cloth or something. I can't get in a cab like this."


	2. Breaking Point

A/N - Well after the great response, I couldn't stop writing :] so here is the next chapter, honestly thank you all for reading and reviewing and for following my story, it means a lot - I hope you enjoy my take on Molly and Sherlock :]

Oh and I have a tumblr if any of you want to see my edits :] I'll put a link on my profile page :]

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Two

Breaking Point

After a quick wipe down to get rid of the dried blood, Sherlock and Molly left the lab. Molly had stolen – or as she preferred, borrowed – a large black hoodie from the changing room and given it to Sherlock, taking his usual attire and stuffing them into her bag. Sherlock was extremely recognisable man as his face had been splashed through the newspapers for months now. He fought valiantly against the idea of wearing such an uncharacteristic item, however as Molly had pointed out; wasn't that the point?

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile as he inclined his head. "Well done, Dr Hooper. It appears that you aren't quite as stupid as the rest," he said with true wonder lighting his eyes. His back handed compliment only made Molly roll her eyes slightly; she was used to his backward praise and misguided words.

"Thanks; I think?" she muttered.

Sherlock took the lead as they made their way to the curb, holding his arm out gracefully and waiting for the nearest black cab to pull up alongside them. As Sherlock lowered his arm a sharp pang rushed to his chest causing him to double over in discomfort, Molly was quick to wrap and arm around his front for support while the other draped over his shoulders. "Sherlock, come on. We need to get you back to my flat. You need proper rest," her voice was assertive as she steered him into the back of the cab, sliding in next to him. Molly recited her address to the cabbie before staring out of the window.

As the cab pulled away to take them to Molly's flat, she sat watching the streets blur past. She was finding it much easier to slip back into her medical training than she had imagined. But then again, she didn't really have a choice in the matter; she could either step up to the plate and help Sherlock or shy away and watch as the man she loved died. It seemed like such an easy decision for Molly. She would honestly do anything that he asked and it frightened her. What was her breaking point? Did she even have one when it came to Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock sat in the uncomfortable hoodie, mind reeling, chest aching and body twitching. All he could think about was the woman beside him, the things she had done, the things that she had always done for him. He could count on her for anything. The thought made him slightly resentful; Sherlock disliked being weak, having people care for him. He was no fool and did not enjoy being treated as such. He knew how to care for himself. He knew that his heart needed rest, that his body needed to burn off the adrenaline, that his body would ache in the morning and that he would need to take a hot soak in the bath to help ease the tired muscles slightly. Molly Hooper was merely a means to an end, nothing more. He would continue that mantra until it finally stuck, and neglect the other part of his mind which was objecting profusely.

Sherlock's jaw tensed slightly as the cab pulled up outside Molly's flat, he detested spending any amount of time outside of his comfort zone – but at least he would have something to entertain himself. He had not set foot in her flat, so it would be a nice little window into her life, her personal life. His attention was caught as Molly paid for the ride and exited the cab. Sherlock followed suit with a hard scowl marring his features. "You do know that it is common courtesy for the man to pay, don't you? I'm supposed to be a gentleman, Molly."

Digging around in her bag, Molly paid little attention to Sherlock as she gave a non-committal grunt and pulled her key out before jamming it into the lock and shoving the rusty, old door open with her shoulder. Bustling her way in, she quickly whispered to Sherlock, "come on, get in. We don't want to risk anyone seeing you." To which Sherlock gave an irritated sigh as he stepped through the threshold and awaited her instructions. He was not a child, but he had to remember that he needed her, so now probably wasn't the best time to behave like a complete dick.

Taking in a large breath he gave Molly one of his sweetest smiles as she steered them toward the stairs, taking them up to the second floor. Molly – to Sherlock's immense pleasure – fumbled with the door key as she tried to unlock her flat door; his charm was obviously having the desired effect. Sherlock could tell a lot about Molly from her door alone. Molly did not go out drinking very often; there weren't any scratches around the key hole. Also, judging by the stiff lock and new appearance, she very rarely used it at all. He had always known that Molly wasn't a social butterfly, but what on earth could entertain her each and every night?

With a slight blush Molly pushed open the door, dreading what Sherlock was going to deduce about her from her flat. She had always hated him using his 'talents' on her; it made her feel exposed and vulnerable in light of his pale blue, all seeing eyes. Molly remembered the mess she had left, the glass of half empty wine, the empty wine bottle, the Chinese take away cartons in the kitchen and the clothes strewn across her couch – this was going to be terrible, however perhaps the noticeable things would keep him from going deeper. Molly knew that it was just wishful thinking, but a girl can dream right?

"Sorry about the mess, I didn't have time to clean up before – you know?" Molly feebly muttered as she set her bags down in the kitchen, pulling out Sherlock's coat and scarf. "I'll clean these for you. You should go get in the bath; it's the first door on the right. Let me know if you need anything." Her rushed words skimmed over Sherlock as he glanced around the room, his eyes honing in on every little clue about Molly. He desperately needed this; he needed to take his mind off everything.

Judging by the worn out buttons on the television remote, the obvious indent in the couch cushions, the left over wine, empty bottle and Chinese take away stains on the carpet, his deduction about spending most of her nights in was being concreted. A painful ache to his chest brought him out of his pondering, he would have to deduce later on, now he had to have a bath. With a large sigh, Sherlock tugged off the hoodie, discarding the offending article onto the floor.

Molly stood helplessly, watching the consulting detective as his eyes flickered around her flat. She knew exactly what he was seeing; a lonely cat lady who didn't have any friends. It wasn't entirely true of course; yes she spent a lot of her time in her flat alone, but it wasn't from lack of offers, it was just lack of offers from a certain person. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she was waiting for Sherlock, she always would be.

Without a word Sherlock pulled off his shirt and passed it to a flustered looking Molly. Her eyes grew wide as she was once again faced with Sherlock's bare chest – she had dreamt of this, but hadn't been quite prepared and well, she wasn't as outgoing as 'dream Molly'. Sherlock sauntered past Molly with a smirk plastered on his face, making his way to the bathroom. He made a mental note on her reaction to his partial nudity; it could come in handy later on.

Molly took the time to clean up her flat as Sherlock was taking a bath. Today was a complete blur. She had begun the day with the image of Sherlock dying, it was heart breaking. She had busied herself in the morgue for the morning and then hidden out in the bathroom as she tried not to cry. Her life had changed completely, all in one day. Molly knew that she didn't have anything to be crying about; after all it was Sherlock's life that was ultimately changing now, not hers. Molly Hooper could go back to her day to day life without worrying about putting her friends in jeopardy.

Dropping down onto her spot on the couch she released a sigh as she closed her eyes. Toby probably wouldn't be back until tonight and then they could cuddle up and sleep together. Molly felt her mind begin to go blank as she slipped off to sleep. Images of a blood drenched Sherlock flickered behind her eyelids, the silent heart in his chest, the paler than normal complexion, then the look in his eyes as he awoke and the soft yet steely gaze as he looked up at her with a confused expression. His lips moved slightly as he spoke her name.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice could be heard but his lips were not moving. "Molly." His voice seemed to be growing sterner as he stared into her eyes. "Molly!" That one did it; Molly jumped as Sherlock's loud voice carried to her ears, waking her up from her rather bizarre dream.

With bleary eyes Molly sought him out, finally landing eyes on him and wishing that she hadn't. There stood the arrogant yet beautiful Sherlock Holmes, hair dripping, body wet, wearing nothing but a towel and a charming grin. "Sorry to wake you, Molly. I was just wondering if I could use your bed." His grin grew wider as he took a step forward, eyes shining as he stared down at her. "It's just, after the fall I'm still a little stiff and it would be rather detrimental to my health if I slept on the couch." If it were even possible his grin seemed to grow even wider.

Molly was still rather flustered and sleepy as she stared up at him, confusion marring her features. She opened her mouth, ready to comply with his every whim however she stopped herself short as the penny dropped inside her mind. All the signs were there, yet again Sherlock was using his little mind games to manipulate her; catching her off guard with the after bath scene, bare torso and practiced smile. "_You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_ Molly remembered Sherlock's earlier confession of trust and foolishly thought this kind of trickery would have died – but he was still the same old Sherlock. She had found her breaking point.

Taking in a deep breath Molly stood up, drawing herself to full height as she walked over to Sherlock. "How dare you." Her nostrils flared slightly as she pinned him with a murderous gaze. "After everything that I have done; after I saved your life, and you're still using these stupid manipulative tricks on me. I thought I meant a little bit more to you than that. You are such a horrible man. I have always fought in your corner, telling people that they were wrong whenever they said you were heartless, a machine – but you know what? They were right. You're a selfish disgusting human being, and I pity you."

Her end statement caused a fire to blaze inside Sherlock; he didn't need pity, especially not from _Molly Hooper._ His jaw tensed as he fired back a response, "_pity_? Why on earth would _you_ pity me?" He sneered.

With a sigh she replied, "Because Sherlock, you're never going to know what it's like to be loved. All you ever think about is yourself." Molly's hands were not fists at her sides.

"Molly." Sherlock gave her the customary warning, as he always did whenever she spoke for too long in his presence.

"No, Sherlock. Not this time. You need to hear this. I would do anything for you and you know that. So instead of coming to me and asking for my bed like a civilized human being, you decided to try and manipulate me; you're a coward. We were finally starting to get somewhere, as equals and you mess it up. You spoilt it." Her eyes were downcast, face slightly flushed and chest rising to match each angered breath.

"So who is worse I wonder, the man who uses the woman, or the woman who allows herself to be used. You are not much better than a common whore." His words stung Molly, causing her to take in a sharp breath as tears stung her eyes. Sherlock was also slightly surprised by his own words, he hadn't meant to be so blunt but the anger had taken over in the heat of the moment.

Instead of storming away like she wanted, Molly stood her ground. With a slight sniff, she raised her chin and met his eyes. "I suppose we are as bad as each other, but I would never manipulate you Sherlock. I take you the way you are because I don't want anything different. I guess I should thank you really, at least now I know nothing will ever change; you will always be the cold, calculating man who only cares about himself. I was naïve to believe that you could ever be anything more." Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily as he was struck with her bold statement, he recovered quickly though, giving her a sneer before walking to the couch. "What are you doing?" Her words were curt as she followed the consulting detective with her eyes.

Sherlock shrugged before dropping down onto the couch. "I'm sleeping here."

"No you're not, a man who has recently taken a large amount of adrenaline into the heart needs rest. You can have my bed. Good night, Sherlock."


	3. Selfish

A/N - Hello my lovelies :] here is chapter three, I am sorry it took a little longer than planned, they weren't cooperating with me! Sherlock may seem slightly OOC - but ah well, I hope you like it anyway :] If you read my tumblr, you may be expecting a sex scene, I'm just gonna say this now; there isn't one - it was too soon :[ I'm very sorry, I wanted it too, but Sherlock wouldn't allow it :/

thank you all so much again for the wonderful reviews/fav's/alerts :] they make me happy!

Oh and if you didn't already know, this isn't mine! well the story line is but that's it :]

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Three

Selfish

After taking Sherlock's clothing out of the dryer and tidying up the blankets and pillow off the couch Molly stuck her head into her bedroom to check on Sherlock; he was sound asleep and tangled up in her bed sheets. After noticing that the sheets were riding up a little too high on his leg, Molly closed the door to save his modesty – she didn't want to spy on a sleeping man.

With a soft smile and a slight blush Molly strolled down the hall and continued to clean the flat, slowly and deliberately as she tried to collect her frayed thoughts and confused feelings. Molly was still rather hurt about Sherlock's whore comment; she knew fully well that he hadn't meant it; he was just being Sherlock, saying things to shut people up, to hurt them enough that they would be too crushed to continue the conversation. He always did it, always. He either did it because he was uncomfortable or bored – sometimes even both.

Molly remembered the Christmas party, that whole scene was down to boredom. His cruel words in the morgue about her weight, again boredom. Last night may have been the first time he had done it down to being uncomfortable, perhaps Molly should stick up for herself more often. It wasn't common for the great Sherlock Holmes to feel discomfort in front of mousy Molly Hooper. She felt a mixture of pride and shame – however, the shame was short lived; this was Sherlock, he wasn't exactly a perfect example of a gentleman.

Picking up Toby's food bowl, Molly frowned slightly; where was her cat? It was very unlike him to stay out all night and then miss the morning feed – perhaps Molly had just missed his usual crying at the balcony window. The buzzing of her mobile phone on the coffee table soon drew Molly out of her inner rambling.

Picking up her phone, she felt her heart drop as she noticed the name; John W. Oh god, this was the phone conversation she had been dreading, but she knew she didn't have to act anything out. All the emotional turmoil from the previous day would be more than enough to prove her innocence to the poor Doctor. Bowing her head slightly she hit the answer button, holding the cold metal to her ear and awaiting the inevitable.

Sherlock awoke to the sound of a floor board creaking. His eyes snapped to the direction of the noise just in time to see a sliver of Molly's brown hair as she closed the door behind her. She must have been checking up on him – how irritating; he was not a child and did not needed to be treated as such. Why did she feel the need to baby him, hadn't he made himself clear to her; he did not need her. She was simply being used, and she knew it. What a stupid woman. Releasing a loud sigh, he ran his hand over his face, if John had been here he would have told him off, correcting his cruelty and apologising for him. But he wouldn't be able to see John for quite some time.

Sherlock knew that he was being unreasonable and harsh, but he couldn't help it. Something about Molly Hooper drove him insane; she made him angry for no reason. The way she always knew what to say, the way she was so observant. Then she would change into a shy little creature who couldn't bear to look him in the eye. Why couldn't she be consistent? At least then Sherlock could try to understand her, to him she went from being so deeply in love with him that she lost the ability to speak coherently, to settling on the fact that she would never receive the same emotions in return from him.

Sherlock quickly shook the thoughts loose; what did it matter to him what Molly Hooper thought or felt? She was a means to an end. That is all. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rid her from his mind, her brown eyes, long brown hair, slender neck and sweet smile; what was happening to him? Was this some sort of Stockholm syndrome – no that wasn't likely, he had been here for a day, and he wasn't a narrow minded imbecile. She had always been there for him, perhaps now he was just beginning to see her true value – yes that was it, he was just getting used to seeing her. That was all.

Stretching out his limbs, Sherlock winced as he felt the ache run through his muscles like an unforgiving electrical current. He was glad to feel it ebb away gently, leaving only slight discomfort. Rising up to sit on the edge of the bed, he felt a bit dizzy, but no chest pain other than the round purple bruise left over from Molly's syringe.

With a smirk, Sherlock pushed the sheet aside and rose from her bed and looked himself over in the mirror; aside from the unruly curls he didn't look all that bad. Turning around swiftly Sherlock finally took in the room, bare walls, plain white curtains, light pink bed sheets, small wardrobe, chest of drawers with a few perfume bottles scattered about the top; so Molly was either enjoyed a blank canvas or lacked the imagination to decorate her own room. If Sherlock were to be honest – and he usually was – it was more than likely a combination of the two.

However if Sherlock were to delve deeper, perhaps the lack of pictures were down to a lack of contact with family members or perhaps a fallout between them. Making his way back to the bed, he inspected the sheets, they were clearly new judging from the tell-tale creases from being in a plastic container. Pulling back the sheet he found the tag still on the mattress, at least three maybe four months old. Ah, it felt good to be deducing again. But the question still remained, why on earth had Molly Hooper felt the need to get rid of her bed sheets and mattress; could it be down to a spillage of some sort – no, Molly wouldn't bother to bring food or beverages back to her bedroom, not with her living room merely feet away; it would be utterly pointless. Perhaps more of a personal reason then, perhaps an undesirable relationship. Sherlock paused, hands resting on the new sheets as the realisation dawned.

He knew what the undesirable relationship was – the undesirable man; Moriarty.

A rather foreign feeling crept over Sherlock as the mental imagery of Molly and Moriarty performing sexually flickered through his mind. Of course he thought of the logical ways in which they would interact, the role of Jim from I.T. and the shy Doctor as they explored each other tentatively. Would it be that way, or would Moriarty have unleashed part of his psychotic self during the primal ritual? Sherlock's jaw tensed as he imagined Molly on all fours with Moriarty taking her from behind. Closing his eyes, he released a frustrated growl – he did not understand these feelings.

With a huff of annoyance Sherlock grabbed the sheet, deciding to have some fun at the Doctors expense; he wrapped it around himself and strode out into the living area. The scene before him caught him off guard. Molly was sat on the couch, phone clutched in one hand while the other was pressed firmly against her mouth, smothering the sound of her broken sobs. Tears were leaking down her flushed face as her eyes glared at the innocent object in her palm.

Sherlock's body seemed to move of its own accord as he swiftly sat before her on the coffee table, fingers gently prying the small object out of her grasp and placing it beside him. "Molly, what's the matter?" His voice was soft yet assertive as he tried to get Molly to look at him. He had already deduced the problem, but perhaps actually asking would be a little kinder than 'showing off' – John would have been proud. However, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could settle on a happy medium. "Did you receive a phone call from John?" Again, he knew the answer was yes, but he was trying to gentle approach.

Molly finally lifted her eyes, slightly surprised by Sherlock's soft voice and gentle eyes. Pulling her hand away from her mouth, she gave a delicate nod of her head as her eyes once again filled with tears. "He asked me if you'd spoken to me before hand, I said no. He was crying Sherlock, and I could have stopped it. I could have stopped his pain. I'm a horrible person." A tear fell from her eye and travelled painfully down her cheek before running down her chin and neck. She deserved the pain, the tears.

"Molly." Sherlock quickly warned as he reached out, tilting her chin to force Molly to look into his eyes. "I am the one who is doing this, you are helping me. This is not your fault, neither is it my fault. We are protecting him. He will know that soon enough." His voice remained strong.

"You're right; we have to do this," Molly sighed.

"Are you menstruating?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he observed the woman before him.

Molly didn't even gasp; she simply sighed gently and gave him a watery smile as she answered, "no Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head lightly and shrugged. "You seem overly emotional, that's all. Would you like some tea?" As he asked, he rose from the coffee table, the sheet slipping open and giving Molly a little more than she had bargained to see, causing her to blush furiously before standing abruptly and tugging the sheet closed. A smirk worked its way across his face as he stared down at her. "I'm not ashamed Miss Hooper, I have nothing to hide."

All Molly could manage to do was raising her eyebrow and swallow the growing lump in her throat. To Sherlock's glee Molly was reacting perfectly. "Now tell me Molly, did you close the sheet out of being polite or because you actually wanted to cover me up?" Sherlock brought his face closer to hers so that their eyes were level as his hand slowly skimmed her wrist – pulse rate accelerated and pupils dilating; perfect.

With a quivering voice Molly answered slowly, "I was being polite." He had never been this close to her before, invading her personal space. Molly was slowly being sucked into his orbit. She knew what this was like, she had been here so many times before, but still she had not figured out how to stop it. So as she always did, Molly allowed it to continue. She allowed herself to be pulled further into him, losing her common sense along the way. Molly only prayed that he would not try to coerce her into doing something that she wasn't comfortable with.

"See, that's what I thought," Sherlock sighed, his breath fanning over Molly's face. Allowing his hand to glide up her arm slowly, he maintained eye contact as he leant in to place a soft kiss to Molly's cheek. "You should take a leaf out of my book; don't bother trying to be polite." With that said, Sherlock turned his head slowly, ignoring Molly's surprised gasp as he claimed her mouth gently. Her lips were fuller than he had expected, it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Molly didn't move – couldn't move – at first, but after gentle coercion from Sherlock, she responded slowly, allowing him to set the pace and take control as his arm wound its way around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her eyes fluttered closed as her hands came up instantly to rest against his chest, the hem of the sheet brushing against her finger tips and begging to be opened. But Molly hesitated, her body going rigid as she remembered her predicament; she was pressed firmly against a very naked Sherlock covered with a thin sheet.

"What did I say?" Sherlock sighed before chuckling slightly, "don't bother trying to be polite."

Molly opened her eyes as she examined Sherlock's features; he looked rather placid, happy almost. He wasn't wearing his trademark sneer or glaring at her. He just looked normal, as any man would look at another woman; which was very unlike Sherlock. Kissing a woman was also very unlike Sherlock. "What are you doing?" Molly's voice was slightly strangled; she couldn't quite believe she was questioning the one thing she had wanted. She must have been a fool, but damn she wanted to know why.

"I'm being selfish Molly. Would you like to join me?" Sherlock's whispered words seemed to slide into place for Molly; he was using her and she was going to allow herself to be used. It may have been selfish of both of them, but at least they knew what they wanted – knew where they stood. Yet one wanted to give everything to the other and the other only wanted to take. But that was the game they played. They tune they would always dance to.

Molly didn't answer; she simply stood up on her tip toes and crushed her mouth against his. Sherlock released a low chuckle as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up off the ground ready to carry her into the bedroom. Sherlock stopped quickly however as Molly's phone began to vibrate against the hard grain of the coffee table. Molly pulled out of the kiss quickly to look at Sherlock with surprise. "I can call them back, just ignore it." Sherlock couldn't help but give her a small smile; Molly Hooper was finally being selfish just like the rest of humanity.

With a sigh Sherlock set Molly on her feet and strolled over to the coffee table. "We can't, it's John. It's about my funeral."


	4. The Funeral

A/N - Well this is a little late, sorry about that :/ but here it is and it's extra long :]

Thanks for all of you for R+Ring :]

And in the next chapter there will be sexy times!

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><p><span>Echo <span>

Chapter 4 

The Funeral

It had been three days since Molly's long and emotionally draining phone conversation with John. In which they had both broken down into tears more than once and profusely apologised for the fact more than was necessary. Luckily for Molly she had Sherlock to comfort her - well, perhaps comfort was a bit of a stretch; he sat next to her and rolled his eyes as she sobbed quietly.

John didn't deserve this pain and she wanted more than anything to put him out of it. But Molly couldn't tell John the truth, if she did she would be putting him in danger along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and probably Sherlock. No, Molly would keep the secret and continue to string out lie after lie, for them. Molly would gladly take pain to ease the suffering of others, but it was hard to hear the pain in John's voice knowing that she could ease it, if only slightly.

Hopefully John would thank her later, or perhaps hurl abuse. Either way, Molly Hooper would sit back and take what he had to offer.

Now Molly was sat with her laptop open on her knee, with Sherlock's face staring back at her with a deerstalker on his head splashed across the news page. The caption read; fake genius, ends life after truth leaked. It made Molly's blood run cold; how dare they publish something so terrible. He had only been dead for four days. Some people just had no common decency.

Sherlock took this very moment to stroll out of Molly's room, hair tousled and bed sheet in place; this had become the norm now. Molly didn't have the heart to kick him out of her bed even though she knew he was well and able to spend the night on the couch. Sherlock was still bored and attempting to cure this with driving Molly into a frenzy with his naked appearance and not-so-subtle comments. He found himself waiting for her to continue what they had started, he was more than willing and knew that she wouldn't take much convincing, however things kept popping up; a phone call from John or Mrs. Hudson, an emergency at work and her constant worry for her missing tabby.

Sherlock noticed immediately by the slight dark marks under her eyes, furrowed brow, tensed jaw and pinched expression that something was wrong - he just hoped that it wasn't to do with the bloody cat. "Molly, what is it? My name being dragged through the mud again?" his eyebrow quirked as he nodded toward the open laptop; he didn't have to be the consulting detective to figure this one out. His death would still be up for public consumption, as would his life. He was simply glad that he had been able to pull the wool so tightly over their eyes. Ordinary people were like little sheep, ready to follow the largest crowd - so fickle, so boring.

Molly sighed heavily before reciting the words before her and growling angrily as she shoved her laptop aside and jumped off the couch. "Who does this Kitty think she is? She knows nothing about you! And who is this source? It disgusts me!" Forcing her way past Sherlock in her fury, she stormed into the kitchen and slammed her finger down onto the kettle, watching as the little light came on to inform her that soon she would be satisfying her thirst with a nice cup of tea.

Sherlock watched on with a smirk as the angry pathologist took her fury out on her unsuspecting kitchen appliances. He had only ever seen John get riled up to defend him. He found himself rather enjoying the sight of a flustered Molly, she was rather beautiful in her temper. Hair ruffled up, eyes ablaze, hands clenched into fists and lips pursed; yes, she was a sight to behold. But Sherlock couldn't allow his feelings to creep up once again; his funeral was later today and he needed to prepare Molly as best he could.

"Just forget about that for now. You need to focus, now when you get to the funeral, what do you need to do?" Sherlock eased back into being her mentor, his head high, eyes fixed and jaw set. Molly couldn't help but find it rather amusing; he looked like some sort of Greek God, wrapped in her bed sheet. Sherlock's eyebrow quirked as he realised that she was staring at his sheet clad body rather than his face. "Focus, Molly. And one day you may see me without it."

That caught her attention as her head snapped up, mouth agape and eyes bulging. "I mustn't give anything away. But I should still refer to you in the present tense because I'm grieving." She was able to push aside the mental images of him striding around her living room naked, in order to recite his rules. "I understand why you're telling me this, but I honestly don't think that I need them. It feels real to me Sherlock and believe me, even a fake burial of you will have me in tears. I'm not going to tell anyone. I swear." She looked up into his light blue eyes, her feet carrying her forward a few paces until they were an arm's length apart.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, he recognised her sincerity and gave her a slight nod. "I'm sorry Molly. I just don't want anybody to be at risk. You do realise that there is no need to cry, I'm right here, standing before you. It's rather peculiar for you to become so upset." His words were not meant to be harsh or cutting in any way; Sherlock was genuinely bemused by her overreaction.

Molly took in a steadying breath before answering, "I suppose I'm not only crying for me or for your death. I'm sad because John is mourning the very man who is living in my flat. People are slandering your name, making everything you did seem like a lie. I'm crying because they are trying to make the world believe that the man I-I-" Molly's eyes filled with tears as she ducked her head, hiding them from Sherlock. After clearing her throat she continued, "the man that I care about was a fraud. You're not, and it makes me feel sick to know that anybody could believe such a thing." With another long sigh, she looked back up to Sherlock, seeing the look of concentration etched across his face; he was deducing her.

Sherlock stood stock still, eyes fixed onto Molly's large brown orbs. He knew what she had wanted to say - what she couldn't say; that she loved him. Now, Sherlock was a man of science, everything could be boiled down to numbers and equations - even love. It was simply a chemical release in the brain - nothing more. Yet, seeing it course through someone, seeing their eyes dilate and neck throb as their pulse quickened, for you; it was exhilarating and puzzling all at once.

The Consulting Detective had known Molly Hooper for years, she had always been there, in the shadows ready to help. He had always been there to use her and then crush her hopes of there ever being anything between them. But now he wasn't sure, she was different; she had proved herself, stood her ground and helped him, even though it may cost her life. She was always so willing. The pathologist was opening his eyes, changing his views and luring him down the path of sentiment; he hated sentiment.

Fixing his mask of indifference, he spoke quickly, "well, enough talking, go get ready. You're cab will be here in an hour." And just like that, with those words spoken, he had slammed the door closed once again. Crushing Molly's hopes with his harsh demeanor. However, for the first time he didn't need John to tell him. It registered with him that he had done something cruel; he felt remorse.

Right on the dot, an hour later found Molly sat in the back of the black cab on her way to the funeral parlour. In her tight black dress and ballet shoes, hair fastened in a side bun and minimal make up; she didn't want to look like the joker after all the crying. She was still confused by Sherlock - you'd think that his behaviour would become easier to handle, or that his words would no longer sting. Molly would always be hurt by his words, because she cared and she longed for him to care about her, even if it was just for a second - she would take anything that he had to offer; the gentle caress of his hand, another lingering kiss, even a brief hug would be nice.

Tears once again welled up in her eyes as she fantasised about all the things she would never have. She knew that it wouldn't be difficult to cry, but she didn't think it would begin this soon.

Molly soon found the cab arriving at the funeral home. It looked rather isolated, just Mrs. Hudson and John were stood at the entrance. After paying the cabbie she rushed to meet them, face dropping as she saw the empty look in John's eyes. Mrs. Hudson was quick to give her a hug and stroke her cheek tenderly. "Molly dear, how are you?" Her voice cracked as she asked the question. Her gentle face was drawn downward, eyes heavy with sleep and tissue stuffed into her sleeve, ready to mop up the tears that she would no doubt cry.

Molly felt the tears track down her cheek as she tried to smile and nod at the friendly old woman. She found herself choking on the lump forming in her throat. "I-I'm fine, thank you. How are the both of you?" John tried his best to smile back at her but only managed a meager nod before turning to enter the building. Mrs. Hudson gave Molly an apologetic look before following his lead. Molly was about to head in as well, but a hand gripped her shoulder effectively stopping her in her dead.

"Excuse me, would you like to comment on Mr. Holmes and his fraudulent life?" Molly turned to see a woman with curly red hair, pointing a Dictaphone at her. "I'm Kitty Riley. Pleased to meet you, uhm?" Molly's eyes narrowed immediately as she remembered the horrible things printed about Sherlock by this vile woman.

"You don't need to know my name. All you need to know is; Sherlock is a great man, he would never lie."

"Was a great man." Kitty corrected quickly, pushing her recording device closer to Molly.

"He is and always will be. I read your article Kitty. Who is your source? Because everything they are telling you is lies, and you are extremely foolish to believe it." Molly held her head higher as the reporter narrowed her eyes - probably trying to intimidate; but not today, not at his funeral. Molly had been preparing for this and she wouldn't have some low life come in and upset things.

"Did you sleep with the Detective then? Did he trick you into bed? Or have you always known he was a fake but wanted to get him into the sack none the less?" Kitty shot her questions at Molly quickly, her eyes still trained on her every expression.

Molly's anger grew at her words - how dare she. "This is a funeral. If you don't leave then I will call the police. Goodbye Ms. Riley." With that said she left the nonchalant reporter outside and joined John and Mrs. Hudson as the funeral began. Today was going to be difficult for everyone, she needed to be there for them.

After the short service in which John spoke few words about Sherlock, Molly and John stood at the grave. The letters etched into the stone made no sense to her, they seemed so foreign. She had spent the service sobbing into a handkerchief while John rubbed her back, trying to soothe her heart ache. But John's comfort only made her cry even harder, she knew the truth - but she couldn't tell anyone.

"He confessed you know; told me he was fake before he died. I still don't believe him." John's cracked voice brought Molly back to the present, his eyes swimming with tears as he stared at the grave stone. "He was my best friend, Molly. But I couldn't save him. I tried, but he told me not to - I should have done it anyway." He bowed his head as the tears fell. John was a broken shell of the man she used to know.

Molly's throat tightened painfully as she watched the ex army Doctor fall apart. All she could do was drape her arm across his broad shoulders and steer him into an awkward hug. "It's okay John, there is nothing that any of us could have done. This is Sherlock we are talking about. He always does what he wants." Molly tried to lighten the mood, but only managed to make herself feel worse while John let out a rough chuckle.

"Yup, that was Sherlock, always stubborn. But he wasn't a liar, Molly." Pulling back from the hug, Molly nodded at his comment and gave him a watery smile. John's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked her over. "Did he say anything to you?" His voice was filled with such hope and determination.

"No. Nothing." Molly's heart sank as she lied so easily. She watched as John nodded slowly before patting her on the shoulder and walking away. He looked like a man who had just been hanging his hopes on one answer, only to receive the wrong one.

Turning her back on his retreating form, Molly dropped down beside the grave and allowed her emotions to take over. All the lies she had told that day, the anger at the words in the press, the hurt in John's eyes, the pity in 's. She didn't know how much longer she could take this. A warm hand on her shoulder caused her to jump slightly. Turning around, she expected to see John, but got a surprise as she clapped eyes on the dark haired Consulting Detective, clad in his usual blue scarf and long coat.

"You're going to catch your death out here, Molly. Come on." Sherlock helped her to stand, steering her into the trees at the side of the grave yard. He didn't say a word as he unfastened his coat and pulled her against his chest to wrap it around both of them. Molly didn't realise how cold she had been until she felt the warmth of his body seep into hers. A low moan leaked through her lips as she sank into him. Sherlock wanted to give a snide comment at the noise, but thought better of it.

"You shouldn't be out in the open, Sherlock; it's dangerous, someone could see you." Molly pressed her cheek against his chest as she spoke, too tired and cold to put any true emotion into her words. The gentle drumming of his heart lulling her eyes closed and easing her panic.

"I was careful. You did well today, Molly. Crying at the right times and not talking too much. How was John?" Sherlock's voice grew serious as he asked the question. Molly knew that he had been wanting to ask about John all along, but didn't want to show any signs of actually feelings; he was becoming rather easy for her to read.

"John's doing as expected, Sherlock. When will we be able to tell him?" Her voice became weak as her throat once again tightened, strangling her from within. "I hate that he has to go through this while we sit by and watch." Tears began seeping into Sherlock's shirt as she thought of John, alone in 221b.

Sherlock's chin was resting on top of Molly's head as he stared at his name on the grave stone, yards away from where they stood. His hand unconsciously stroking down Molly's back. "I know, I'm sorry that I've done this to you. But you were the only person I could turn to." With that said he placed a small kiss to the top of Molly's head - he wasn't sure whether it was an act or a true sign of emotion, but he didn't care to delve any further. He found himself wanting comfort, real comfort. Not just an experiment or a way to ease boredom. Sherlock was becoming attached to Molly and he couldn't find it in him to fight it anymore.


	5. Bare Bravery

**A/N - Well here it is! I wont blab on for too long. Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing, it makes me very happy :]**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Five

Bare Bravery

Molly and Sherlock arrived back at the flat around five o'clock in the evening. Molly was emotionally and physically exhausted from the long walk and dreading her shift that evening in the morgue. It was silly really; she knew that due to the circumstances she could take time off without any fuss, but she didn't feel comfortable going on leave to mourn when Sherlock wasn't really dead. But perhaps it would help to make it more believable, she would have to discuss it with Sherlock.

Her colleagues had been lovely, sending her text messages, emails and some even ringing her to make sure she was alright. It was slightly disconcerting however, to know that her fellow workers knew about her infatuation with the 'Consulting Detective'. Molly had thought that she had kept it a secret. Perhaps she was a little more transparent than she had believed.

Sherlock had spent the entire walk home thinking about his revelation in the cemetery - he had done what he prided himself in being able to do best; eliminated the impossible and left the thing which however improbable must be the truth. He had finally come to a conclusion as he watched Molly remove his coat - he had given it to her shortly after they began the long walk home. He had to admit, she looked pretty good in it - the coat obviously didn't fit her properly but it seemed to accentuate her femininity.

He had never truly looked at Molly Hooper, not properly. Today Sherlock would finally see her, all of her.

Steeling his resolve Sherlock strode with purpose toward Molly, eyes seeking hers. Molly's heart began to race as Sherlock's pale blue eyes locked with hers. "What are you doing?" Her voice was barely above a whisper as Sherlock stopped in front of her, eyes staring, face blank but not unpleasant. Her brow furrowed as Sherlock retrieved her phone from his back pocket - he must have taken it from her bag back at the cemetery. Molly would have been furious had it been anyone else, but she knew Sherlock; he meant no harm, he just didn't abide by the social rules which restricted others. If he wanted something, he took it.

"I'm picking up where we left off," his deep voice sent shivers down her spine as his fingers drifted quickly over the keypad on her phone. "and this time we wont be interrupted." He twisted his wrist to show her the message on the screen which read; 'I can't make it into work just yet, I need to take some time off'. The message was addressed to her boss. Before Molly could protest, his finger hit the send button. With a slight sigh, she shook her head as a smile played around the corners of her mouth - it was just like Sherlock to do something like that. She would have preferred the message to be a little more polite, but it was gone now, she couldn't do anything.

Her mind quickly snapped back to the meaning behind his words; being selfish, two people who are as bad as one another. Sherlock did not beat around the bush and he certainly didn't play games. He was being serious.

"What if I don't want to be selfish, Sherlock?" Molly's voice did not hold the strength she had hoped for. His close proximity was messing with her head, his eyes hypnotising her as his breath fanned lightly over her face. She was intimated and frightened, she knew exactly what he wanted from her. Even though she had dreamt of this day, Molly wasn't exactly ready. Sherlock was tall, dark and handsome - Molly was short, curvy and ordinary. But she wanted him, there was no use denying that, even if her mouth decided to betray her.

"We both know that's a lie, Molly." Sherlock smirked down at her; she was practically drunk, her body language begging him for more, yet she was denying it. Why? Because she was afraid. Sherlock did not see this as a good enough reason to decline his offer. "You want this. I'm going to give it to you, Molly. It would be much easier if you stop trying to refuse."

Without a word Molly closed her eyes and took in a steadying breath before whispering, "okay."

"Say it. Tell me what you want." Sherlock's tone may have been gentle but the authority behind his words did not disappear. He was the one in control, as always.

Molly slowly opened her eyes, staring straight into his icy blue orbs she complied. "I want to be selfish. I want you." As if to show that she truly meant what she was saying, Molly lifted herself up onto the tips of her toes to gently press her lips against Sherlock's. For the first time since they met she did not feel afraid or unsettled by the 'Great Sherlock Holmes', she felt closer to an equal. Which quite frankly didn't make a lick of sense, as kissing him was surely the most intimate moment that they had ever shared. Perhaps this was her turning point, the day she would no longer be afraid.

To say that Sherlock was surprised would have been an understatement. He was rather proud in fact; the shy pathologist was finally taking what she wanted, without thinking of the consequences. Quite beautiful. But Sherlock thought it wise to make certain that she knew the rules first.

Gently pushing her shoulders back, he broke the kiss before it went too far. Trailing his thumb across her plump lower lip he whispered, "this is a one time thing, Molly. It wont happen again, do you understand?"

With a chuckle Molly grabbed his hand and lead him towards her bedroom. "Shut up, Sherlock." Pushing the door open she gave him a sweet smile before trailing her hands up his chest slowly. "I know what this is. I'll take it."

Sherlock stared down at her, his eyebrows creasing slightly; this woman really would do anything for him. He studied her face for a moment, memorizing the trusting and almost pleading look in her eyes. She was so pure - too pure for him. Perhaps it was merely a mixture of stupidity and greed, but Sherlock didn't care what her reasons were; she was willing to comply - that was all he needed to know.

Knowing that he would need to make the first move, Sherlock slipped his arms around her waist as he swooped in for another kiss. It had been quite a long time since Sherlock had been intimate with a woman - it had been an experiment, a quick fumble when his hormones ruled his head, to see if sex was all it was hyped up to be; it was nothing special or intimate, quite honestly the girl had annoyed him with her irritating babbling. Molly was different, she allowed him to take command easily and without disruption.

Molly was quickly becoming intoxicated as he deepened the kiss and exploring her mouth curiously. His skilled fingers soon found the zipper of her dress, she could feel him smirking as he tugged it down at a painfully slow speed. Molly had to remind herself to be patient; after all this was only a one time thing.

Pushing coherent thoughts from her mind, Molly allowed her body to relax further as she pressed herself against the hard planes of Sherlock's chest. Her small hands resting on his upper arms as he broke the kiss once more, his chest rising as he took in a steadying breath before placing a delicate kiss to her forehead. "I want to see you," his words were barely even registering with her as he smoothed his hand's down Molly's arms and took a step back, "stand still."

Giving a slight nod, Molly watched as Sherlock circled her slowly, his eyes darting quickly across her. Reaching out slowly, Sherlock eased the straps of her dress off, allowing the black fabric to pool around her feet. Molly's arms instinctively went to cover herself before Sherlock's strong hands encircled her wrists firmly. "No, Molly. I want to see you." Her dark, brown eyes found his curious face as he glanced from her black, lace covered breasts to her lips. "Well, do you always wear such expensive lingerie? I assume not as I have already taken the liberty of looking through your underwear drawer. So then, this must have been for the funeral - for my funeral." He gave her a raised eyebrow as he deduced her. He couldn't help but find her fascinating.

Molly didn't see the need to defend herself or say anything at all, so she stood there, face heating up with embarrassment while Sherlock continued to look her over. She felt like a case to him. Perhaps this was his idea of fun - who was she kidding; it was his kind of fun. She watched with curiosity as Sherlock's face screwed up slightly, his finger tapping his chin before he finally broke out into a triumphant smile. His hand dashed out quickly to pull the elastic band from her hair, allowing the bro  
>wn curls to cascade freely down her back. "Perfect. Get on the bed." With that said Sherlock turned his back and began to remove his jacket.<p>

With wide unblinking eyes, Molly shuffled back a few steps before she felt the hard wood against her bare legs and sat down. This was actually happening. Taking in a few deep breaths, Molly glanced up in time to see Sherlock turn around, his eyes fixed onto hers once more as he hung his jacket on the back of Molly's door. She couldn't stop the slight smirk; heaven forbid his jacket got creased on the floor. As if reading her mind, Sherlock smiled back as he began to unbutton his shirt, effectively drawing the attention back to the task at hand. Molly's heart began to pound yet again as Sherlock closed the distance in a few strides, his body dipping as he picked her up only to pull her further up the bed.

"Thank you, Molly." She barely registered his softly spoken words before his lips crashed into hers, their pace unrelenting as Sherlock pressed himself into Molly's soft form. Molly released a loud sigh as his mouth finally left hers to trail hot kisses down her neck. Her hands quickly sought out the buttons of his shirt as his ghosted over her soft flesh. The shirt soon joined her dress upon the floor, revealing his sculpted chest and causing Molly to become slightly incoherent as she tried to catch her breath. Smirking down at her, Sherlock sat up, tugging his belt free and unfastening his trousers. He released a sigh as the constricting fabric was loosened.

Molly's shy nature vanished as she too sat up, her hands working the clasp of her bra until it popped off. Sherlock looked directly into her eyes, his eyebrows once again creased as he tried to see the once painfully shy woman he had known. His eyes remained trained on hers as he pushed her back against the bed, his hands smoothing down her shoulders gently as he claimed her lips, the palms of his hands soon gliding over her breasts slowly. Molly allowed her eyes to drift closed as she savoured the feel of his warm hands exploring her. Stroking her fingers down his back, she hooked her thumbs into the hem of his trousers, easing them down slowly as she arched her back to apply more pressure to her chest.

Sherlock released a low chuckle as he felt Molly struggling to take off his trousers, batting her hands away, he pushed them off quickly. Their underwear soon joined the the rest of their discarded clothing on the floor, leaving them both to wonder who would make the final move, who would take the last step.

Sherlock - getting slightly impatient with the childish nerves of Molly - heaved a sigh as he placed himself above her, giving her a calculating look before pushing ahead slowly; not wanting to frighten her too much. He didn't know why, but Sherlock needed this. The tension and stress was getting too much for him and without a case, this seemed like the best option - or so he kept telling himself. Molly's eyes instinctively snapped shut as she felt the mixture of slight pain and pleasure as he so abruptly invaded her.

Sherlock had denied himself the pleasure of a woman long ago, so the soft feel of Molly was almost enough to push him over the edge instantly. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock ducked his head into Molly's hair, taking in steadying breaths as he felt her do the same. Molly moved her hips slowly, trying to encourage him to move - she was still nervous but afraid that Sherlock was going to back out before it had even begun. A smile broke across her face as she felt him comply, moving slowly to begin with, but speeding up slightly, head still nestled in her hair as his hands fisted the pillow beneath her head.

Sighing loudly, Molly felt brave as she wasn't being watched by his intense, blue gaze. She remembered her fantasies about the Consulting Detective and decided to take advantage. Lifting her arms slowly, she ran her fingers tentatively through his dark curls, revelling in the feel of his silky hair beneath her finger tips. Arching her back slowly, Molly dragged her finger nails lightly down the hard planes of his back, moaning when she felt him speed up, his hips colliding with hers almost painfully.

Breathing in deeply, Molly turned her head slowly to kiss Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock tried to concentrate as Molly dug her finger nails into his flesh, her hips jerking to meet his - he didn't know how much longer he could hold on, she wasn't making it any easier. She began whispering his name, her eyes closed as she shifted below him, hands grasping his shoulders as she fell ever deeper into the feel of Sherlock. Her whispered words soon became moans, which evolved into screams of pleasure. Hands turning to fists as she got closer to the edge. She had no idea that Sherlock was watching her, mesmerised by her facial expressions and how she had become so lost in the feeling. He wished that he could feel that way, that he could become engrossed in another human being so completely.

His pace did not slow as he watched the brunette toss her head, looking down he noticed her toes curl under, legs clamping around him; she was almost there. With a smirk, Sherlock grasped Molly's hair tightly, pulling her mouth to his as he sped up, swallowing her screams of ecstasy. The way her body clamped around Sherlock caused him to join her moments later, his kiss becoming bruising as his body tensed. The kisses became softer as their hearts slowed and breathing became regular. Collapsing beside Molly, he barely noticed as the tiny woman curled her body into his, both falling asleep almost instantly.


	6. The Morning After

**A/N - I'm so sorry that this took so long, I have been battling a chest infection, and have got lots of uni work due in a week.**

**Thank you all so so much for the wonderful reviews :] I shall respond to them all as soon as I can :] You guys are definitely keeping me writing.**

**And you were all right, Sherlock lied about it being a one time thing :]**

**This chapter is basically just smut, but I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Six

The Morning After

_Molly stood hovering over the microscope, watching the bacteria wriggle and writhe hypnotically. She had been working all day, feet tired, hair a mess and her head ached. It was silly, but Molly resented the man laid on the metal slab, he had arrived a half an hour before the end of her shift, obviously it couldn't wait because the police wanted the post mortem as soon as possible. It wasn't as though the poor man could have waited a few more minutes to die, but perhaps he could have been a little smarter and not gotten himself killed while she was working._

_With an agitated sigh Molly lifted her head from the lens of the microscope and scrawled down her findings in short hand, her eyes heavy with sleep. She heard the door swing open and cringed as she heard the handle collide with the wall; Sherlock. Molly didn't feel the need to turn and greet the irritable consulting detective, she knew him well enough to anticipate his harsh words and cold stare. She didn't think she could handle him and all the work at the same time._

_"Miss Hooper, aren't we rude this evening?" Sherlock's usual cocky tone was set in place however, surprisingly so, Molly actually thought she detected some semblance of humour laced within his words. Was he trying to make a joke? Sherlock Holmes? Surely not._

_With a slight shake of her head, Molly pushed aside that thought - believing she had imagined the humorous undertones; Sherlock didn't do double meanings, he told the truth, no matter how harsh. "I'm a little busy Sherlock. Can... whatever it is you need wait?" She hadn't meant her voice to sound quite that rude, hopefully he hadn't taken too much offence. Molly could hope that he wouldn't notice, but Sherlock noticed everything._

_To Molly's surprise Sherlock began to laugh, a light sound unlike anything she had heard pass his lips. Turning on her heel, eyes wide, she almost gasped as she caught sight of the scene before her. Sherlock stood naked, a bunch of roses held precariously to cover his man hood. "Unfortunately not, Molly. Would you really have me go back into the street looking like this?" Using his free hand, he waved toward the door. His icy, blue eyes seemed to show so much warmth, the smile genuine. Molly had never seen him look so handsome._

_With a fiery blush setting in, Molly tucked an errant curl behind her ear and smiled up at him, her feet carrying her toward him of their own accord. "Are these for me?" She reached slowly for the roses, watching the spark ignite in his eyes as their fingers touched._

_"Yes, and also to give me a little dignity." Sherlock's grin broadened as he looked down at the pathologist. Molly gasped as he threw the roses aside, his arms wrapping around her before his lips claimed hers._

Sherlock had been awake for several hours, laid on his back staring at the cracks on the ceiling. He hadn't yet moved from Molly's embrace. She lay glued to his side, her head resting on his shoulder, arm draped across his stomach and leg hitched over his. He would deny it profusely, but he was enjoying the intimacy; Sherlock rarely allowed people to get so close, but that didn't mean that he didn't crave it every once in a while.

He would have to leave her soon, perhaps give her one more day. Molly deserved a little happiness, the girl had the worst luck. She had been pining after a man who was seemingly uninterested. When she finally found someone they were only using her. And whenever she tried to go out on dates, Sherlock seemed to interrupt and destroy her plans.

Sherlock glanced down at her as she made a slight groaning noise in the back of her throat. How fascinating. Sherlock turned his attentions to her as she began to whimper, her small grasp tightening. Was little Mousy Molly having a dirty dream?

_Molly's hand gripped his hair as Sherlock lifted her onto the table, his mouth devouring hers. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed briefly as Sherlock trailed kisses down her neck. Running her fingers through his curly hair, Molly couldn't remember ever being this content. Just as a smile spread across her face, her eyes sprang open as she suddenly felt a chill washing over her skin. Looking down, she furrowed her brow in confusion as she realised that her clothes were gone. Turning her questioning gaze to Sherlock, he merely smirked and shrugged his shoulders._

_Before Molly could interject, Sherlock had pounced, his hands pawing at her flesh while he used his legs to separate her knees. Pulling her to him, Sherlock didn't waste any more time, as he lent down to kiss her. Gripping her hips he dragged her closer to the edge of the table, inwardly shivering as he swallowed her moans or pleasure while entering her._

Sherlock propped his hands behind his head as Molly began to moan, her hips rocking ever so slightly, bumping gently into his hip. A slight smirk spread across his lips as he heard her mutter his name faintly. Perhaps this was a usual occurrence for Molly Hooper, having Sherlock star in her erotic dreams. But to Sherlock this was a rather strange feeling, having a woman he had considered innocent, panting in her sleep and rubbing herself against his hip and thigh.

Quirking his brow slightly, Sherlock decided to have a little fun. Pushing his leg to meet Molly's gentle thrusts. He wasn't surprised to hear the increase of volume to her breathy pants and moans. It appeared that this little experiment was going to be rather exciting. Turning toward her, Sherlock made sure to be careful and not wake her. His leg was still wedged between hers. With the lightest touch, Sherlock ran his fingers over her cheek, the pad of his thumb trailing over her soft lip before he bowed his head, kissing her slowly and silencing her constant whimpers.

_Molly allowed her head to fall forward into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Her eyes closed and mouth agape as she relished the feelings he enticed from her body. Their skin slick with sweat as they moved in sync. Molly lifted her head slowly as she realised that his movements had slowly stopped. Looking up into his eyes, she didn't say a word as his fingers gently traced her cheek. He seemed miles away, his eyes following the movements of his hand. The fingers trailed slowly toward her mouth, his eyes squinting in silent concentration as he dragged his thumb painfully slowly over her bottom lip._

_"You're beautiful, Molly." His words were a whisper against her ears._

_She allowed her eyes to flutter closed as he once again bowed down to claim her mouth. He rocked his hips slowly and Molly almost stopped breathing, the intensity seemed so much stronger than before. Gripping his shoulders, she tucked her head into the crook of his neck, crushing herself closer to his warmth._

Sherlock broke away from the kiss, his eyes taking in every detail of Molly's face. It was obvious that she was dreaming of him, as he had already heard his name several times. By the look of pleasure on her face, he'd say that the dream was rather good. Her body seemed to be reenacting whatever she was experiencing in her sub conscious. He wasn't exactly an expert on these kinds of things, but surely the real thing was much better than the imagined.

Deciding it was a better option, Sherlock gently ran his fingers through Molly's long brown hair, whispering her name softly. Molly began to protest, her eyes squinting before she grumbled incoherently. "Molly, wake up. I have something for you." Her eyes instantly sprang open, the memory of her erotic dream still fresh in her mind. However she knew that it was highly improbable that he had roses for her.

Molly glanced down at their intertwined bodies, her throat closing slightly as she registered that last night had in fact happened and that she was currently laid naked with Sherlock Holmes. Reading the thoughts as they crossed her face, Sherlock was quick to lay any fears to rest. "Yes, it wasn't a dream, Molly. However, you did seem to be having one. About me." With those last words, he pressed his growing length into her, relishing the sound of her petite gasp. "I was wondering if you wanted the real thing instead?"

Maintaining eye contact with him, Molly made a split second decision to throw away her insecurities and enjoy the moment as she had the night before. "Perhaps it really is healthy to be selfish," Molly whispered, a slight smile quirking her lips. Sherlock didn't need much more of an invitation, with a small chuckle he took what he wanted. What was his. He'd be damned if a dream would take his place.

Molly released a squeal of surprise as Sherlock's hands gripped her hips, pulling her onto him with such intensity that her eyes began to water. She bit her lip to stifle the groan of pain. His fingers dug greedily into her flesh as his teeth nipped at her neck. She never knew that Sherlock had this side to him. If he were honest, neither did Sherlock. Perhaps it was a build up of sexual frustration over the years, or having to watch Molly fantasising about him, maybe the memories from the previous nights activities were still bouncing around his mind, causing his arousal. No matter what it was, neither of them wanted it to end.

Once again Sherlock opened his eyes to watch as Molly unravelled before him. Her eyes closed softly, mouth open in a delicate 'o' shape and eyebrows drawn together slightly. He knew that he would never tire of seeing her this way. He didn't know why, but he felt the need to memorize it. He didn't want this to be the last time he would see her like this, but just in case, he wanted to dedicate it to memory, file away every sound and soft movement of her delicate face. She was fascinating. The experience was fascinating. He had dedicated himself to science, yet missed out on one of the most complex experiences. Sherlock wanted to see how much he could entice from her.

Giving his head a slight shake. Sherlock bowed his head and began to place slow kisses down her neck, keeping a steady rhythm as he felt her begin to tighten around him. Moving his hand over her body, Sherlock finally threaded his fingers into her hair. Gripping tightly as he tugged her closer, trying to conjure up the same sounds her little fantasy had created - Sherlock Holmes was certainly better than some dream invented by the shy pathologist.

Molly opened her eyes to see Sherlock looming over her, his eyes piercing and hair tousled into a curly mess. She allowed herself to get lost in their blue depths as the euphoria washed over her, wave after wave crashing into her as his pace increased in speed. His hips colliding with hers as he grunted, head bowing and eyes closed. Molly watched with wide eyes as Sherlock tossed his head back, neck exposed, veins pulsing, muscles rolling as he gave one final thrust. She almost choked as her own orgasm took control, curling her toes and setting off fireworks behind her eyes. The last thing she recalled was her finger nails digging into Sherlock's shoulders, before her mind went blank and her eyes glazed over.

Sherlock quickly untangled himself from the incoherent brunette; no need to get too attached. Molly laid panting, eyes glued to the ceiling, much as Sherlock had been doing previously. He laid beside her, dissecting the strange emotions which were being dragged up from the previous night. Sherlock didn't necessarily feel all that differently toward Molly Hooper. It was the way he saw her that had really changed. He had never imagined that one day he would seek her for sexual gratification. That was all this was really, for both of them. Molly did have considerably stronger feelings for him, yes. But she knew the rules.

Sherlock was brought out of his musing by a giggling Molly Hooper. "I thought you said this was a one time thing?" She cocked her eyebrow at him, her mouth quirked into a smile.

Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he replied almost lazily, "I said the same thing about smoking."

Well, whatever had changed in the fundamentals of their relationship, he was actually enjoying himself. Sherlock wasn't bored or even frustrated with the once irritating woman beside him. Perhaps he was getting a little soft. It would probably be easier on her if he broke this off sooner rather than later.


	7. Unwanted Arrival

**A/N - Hey you guys :] thank you all for being so wonderful and reading/reviewing Echo :] there are only 3 chapters after this one :/ but there will be a sequel :] thank you all again and little warning here, there is a lot of angst :/ **

**Okay I'm gonna drop this chapter here and run and hide :'[ **

**love you :]**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Seven

Unwanted Arrival

Molly stood in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea for Sherlock who was reading her laptop at the table. Molly couldn't quite help herself as her mind drifted to that morning. She had sat up watching a sleeping Sherlock Holmes, a sight which was so very peaceful in amidst of all the chaos. She had pulled her eyes away, moving to the small bathroom as her common sense screamed at her; she knew full well that this wasn't some perfect love story, Sherlock would not declare his undying love or get down on bended knee, and she would not have her white wedding with the man of her dreams. This was a small piece of the cake - a taster - and that was all she could have.

Molly would never get to call the man whom was slumbering peacefully, hers.

Molly had allowed the hot water to wash away the tears. Cleanse her of the night passed. She would never forget the feeling; never forget the sight of him as he finally allowed his mask to fall, if only for a moment. No, Molly Hooper would not forget. Perhaps that was the problem; she would forever have these memories burned into her mind, repeating on an endless loop of euphoric misery.

Molly quickly snapped back to the present as the spoon collided with the side of the cup. With a fast swipe of the hand, Molly caught the tear leaking down her cheek. She knew the rules; she knew what she was getting into. She had to let go, Molly couldn't allow herself to become attached, it would be too painful.

"I think the tea is finished now." Sherlock's rich baritone swirled around her, making her heart flutter and eyes close as she remembered his whispered words of passion. Silently berating herself, Molly picked up the cups of tea and made her way to the table. Sherlock didn't raise his eyes from the screen as he held his hand out for the tea. With a roll of her eyes Molly tried to place the handle into his grasp - with some difficulty.

"So, what's the latest?" Molly flicked her hand casually over the laptop, she knew that he had been looking up any news of his death and checking in on John of course. This also meant of course that he would be leaving soon. Molly quickly crushed the fear and tried to swallow the rising lump in her throat. She knew this day was coming. This wasn't permanent.

Sherlock watched Molly closely, seeing the glossy sheen in her eyes; she was trying to hold back tears. Her hands were nervously twitching as they had been since she awoke that morning. He had woken to see her leaving the room, shoulders sagging and head held low. She was obviously upset about something. Damn it, Sherlock didn't have time for an overly emotional Molly, he had to distract her - redirect her emotions.

"Molly, why are you out of contact with your family?" Sherlock stifled a smirk as he watched her face go from misery to surprise, she was such an open book. His eyes remained trained on her face as she formulated her response. He knew what she was going to say.

"Why do you think I'm not in contact with my... Oh never mind that, I'm past trying to deduce the great consulting detective. After my father died, my mother got remarried and I was the only one who disagreed. There was a heated family row and now they don't return my calls." Her eyebrows drew together, breathing accelerated and jaw clenched. She was now angry, perfect. Sherlock knew exactly how to play little Molly, and he would never tire of it.

"And why did you disagree? Didn't like the new man?" Sherlock was genuinely interested, however with a slight scowl and a disinterested look, he glanced back to the computer screen – he didn't want to give her too much power.

"No." Molly answered immediately, eyes snapping up to meet the side of Sherlock's face. "I didn't even know the man, but he wasn't my father. My father had been buried little longer than a month and she got married again, making everything with my dad seem meaningless. I tried to talk to her, but we've never really seen eye to eye, I'm more like my dad. I think that's why she doesn't like me anymore, I remind her of him."

"Perhaps your mother was lonely – I can't say I understand that feeling but I know people get that way, especially after someone close dies." Sherlock kept his voice void of emotion, his eyes remaining trained on the screen before him as he spoke nonchalantly.

With a slight shake of the head, Molly tried again to explain herself. "I understand that she felt lost and alone, maybe desperate for comfort but to rush into it – I can't forgive her for that. I was still mourning my father when I received the bloody invitation. He raised me, cared for me, loved me, just as he did her. Please don't misunderstand me, I love my mother and want her to be happy, but I was there for her, she could have sought comfort from me or my brothers, but instead she went to singles bars for over 50's and found a replacement. I can't forgive her for that."

Sherlock noticed with a swift glance that the glossy look was back in her eyes, but this time it was more determination than just sadness. She missed her family; obviously she had removed the pictures to stop the sting that came with the reminder of their fractured relationship. Molly was stronger than she gave herself credit for, she had stuck by her guns, not allowing her love for her mother to cloud her feelings of betrayal – Sherlock was proud.

Wanting a little more information, Sherlock pried further. "And why have your brothers stopped talking to you?"

A slight smile touched her lips before she answered quietly, "They didn't want to upset my mother, so they just went along with it. They used to do the exact same when we were kids – majority ruled in our house, I guess I had enough of being pushed around and forced to feel something that wasn't there." A solitary tear trailed down her cheek, curling under her chin before continuing its trail down her neck. Sherlock followed the movement with hawk like eyes, watching with fascination as the salty fluid left a wet path in its wake – fascinating. Ordinary people were basically balls of uncontrolled, raw emotions. He felt himself rather lucky that he had trained himself long ago, never to allow his heart to rule his head.

"Come on then, what else do you want to distract me with?" Molly's voice cut through his thoughts, her light hearted tone striking him as slightly odd. "I know you picked up my family upset from the missing photographs. So what else? Perhaps my washing up liquid is an insight to my past, or my DVD's, warn out books, tatty clothing, loose floorboards, perhaps my creaking table?" Molly's eyebrow rose in question, her eyes slightly mischievous – she was playing with him.

With a smirk, he responded quickly, "Well, the fact that you have a creaking table could mean that you just haven't gotten around the fixing it yet, but knowing you as I do – you wouldn't leave the table broken, you would make time to fix it, so that means its sentimental, perhaps it was broken when you were younger and you don't want to fix it, which brings me to assume it was your fathers table." Stopping for a moment Sherlock looked her over, seeing her nod slightly, he continued with satisfaction. "The loose floorboards are rather simple to deduce, you Molly Hooper are a pacer, you do it at work, you must also do it here, thus the well warn and creaking floorboards. The tatty clothing is simply because you will not throw them out; you will keep them until they fall apart because you are practical. The warn books simply suggest that you enjoy reading and by the looks of your collection, it is mostly medical journals, the fictional books are barely touched so they must be gifts, probably from your mother or other family members who don't quite know you as well as they should. You don't have any DVD's and your washing up liquid only tells me that you're cheap." Finally stopping to take in a long breath, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Molly stifled a laugh as she nodded slightly. "But the table was my _grand_fathers." Gritting his teeth slightly and berating himself for missing such an obvious observation, Sherlock just shook his head – he couldn't get it right each and every time. "And I am not cheap – I just don't like spending too much money, not in this economy."

Dismissing her last comment Sherlock closed the laptop with a quiet click. He had been desperate to ask this question for some time and now felt like as opportune moment as any. "Did you sleep with Moriarty? Is that why you bought a new mattress and sheets?" He drank in her facial expressions as they changed from mirth to dread, her cheeks paling and hands twitching – she was uncomfortable, but he needed to know, Sherlock didn't understand why, but he did.

Clearing her throat, she squared her shoulders and looked Sherlock in the eye. Molly had been hoping that this wouldn't come up, but that was rather impossible with Sherlock, secrets weren't kept behind locked doors when the man with the skeleton key arrived. "Yes, we had sex. I was drunk, I _thought_ he was. But I have a suspicion that he planned it all, just so I'd feel disgusted when I found out the truth." Her eyes were once again distant, the glassy look returning as her hands finally stilled. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by her words, first her confession and then the apology. "Why are you saying sorry? To me?" His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the obviously nervous pathologist.

Molly sighed, running her fingers through her hair before responding. "Because I allowed him to get in, I brought him to the morgue, I showed him around. I led him straight to you and all because I was lonely and naïve."

Sherlock couldn't help but agree with her on almost everything; she had been open to manipulation, as she had with him so many times in the past. "He would have found another way Molly. Moriarty was already in my life, you didn't introduce us, I had just never seen his face." Trying his hand at sympathy, Sherlock reached across the table and gave her hand a solitary pat – that was what ordinary people did, didn't they?

Giving his hand with a wide eyes stare, Molly nodded in resignation. "Right, well you better be off. I'm guessing that everyone still believes that you're dead, so you'd best be on your way tonight, no need to draw in unwanted attention. Drink your tea and we can arrange everything. It's probably best that we don't have any more contact, not until your name is clear and everyone is safe. How long do you think it will take?" Molly couldn't successfully keep the waiver from her voice.

"It could be weeks, months, years; I honestly can't give an accurate amount of time. I already have everything arranged, I shall finish my tea and leave, I know the backstreets well enough to sneak away, people are stupid, they won't suspect that I would leave in broad day light, it's the perfect disguise. Plus I'm barely in the papers anymore, nobody would recognise me."

Molly only managed to nod along, not trusting her voice to carry the short distance between them. This was it; Sherlock Holmes was leaving, perhaps for years. Vision slightly blurred, Molly watched as Sherlock imbibed his tea quickly. Standing slowly, Molly took the cup along with her own and placed them in the sink. As she began to turn she watched Sherlock's fluid movements as he put the scarf around his neck before pulling his coat on, collar turned up.

"Well, thank you for your help, Molly Hooper." In two short strides, he closed the distance between them, leaning forward to place to chaste kiss to her cheek. She couldn't respond, her heart was beating wildly, eyes filling up with tears as he briskly turned his back, heading for the door. In the blink of an eye he was gone, the click of the door resonating through her now empty mind. It felt like a dream, perhaps her fantasies had begun to feel too real. Shaking her head, Molly berated herself for questioning her mental capacity; she knew this day would come. He only needed her for a short period of time – she had been of use, she should take comfort in that.

Sherlock closed the door quickly, his hand clenching on the door handle. He knew that he didn't have to leave; he could have remained in her flat for months, waited it out and then returned to 221B. But he was pushing her away, keeping her at arm's length. Sentiment was something Sherlock had always steered well clear of – seeing it as weakness. Sherlock was an intelligent man, but he was making a fools mistake.

The truth about the consulting detective was that he was afraid of sentiment; he had been burnt many times and now he was afraid of the fire. He would come to regret his decisions soon enough, but now he will leave, he will flee.

Turning with a scowl etched into his face, Sherlock strode with purpose along the corridor and into the waiting elevator. In his haste, Sherlock had not noticed the shrouded figure waiting in the shadowed corridor.

Molly had fallen to sleep after practically throwing herself onto the couch. She couldn't remember what had woken her until she heard the familiar tapping on the door. Sitting up quickly, she smoothed down her hair before looking at her watch; Sherlock had left two hours ago. Could he have come back? Maybe he had changed his mind. Giving her head a slight shake, Molly jumped up and rushed to the door – there was no need to get herself overly excited before she'd answered the bloody thing.

Reaching for the handle, she tugged it open quickly, eyes light as she looked out into the hall way. Her anticipation died quickly as her eyes drank in the expensive tailored suit, wicked grin and dark, brown eyes. He was alive.


	8. Forced Reunions

**A/N - Hey honey's! Well here is another chapter :] I kinda couldn't stop writing and really wanted to give you this for being so incredibly amazing :] I love you and stay strong! I promise this will have a happy ending :] **

**Enjoy! and thanks again for being amazing, I love you all!**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Eight

Forced Reunions

After much deliberation Sherlock caved and rounded on himself, heading back to Molly's flat with haste. He had been walking the back alleys of London for at least thirty minutes, his mind betraying him with images of Molly, the way she smiled, the way she smelt, her shy mannerisms, the way she seemed to blossom beneath him. He had tried to fight his emotions, crush his heart and ignore the irritating tug that he felt the moment his foot hit the hard pavement outside her building.

Sherlock was not a love struck man. He simply could not rid himself of the curiosity – why did he feel this way? What would happen if he sought out the answers? Would he find an acceptable conclusion? Sherlock was a man of science and this was a new discovery for him.

With a slight chuckle Sherlock grasped the handle to Molly's apartment building, giving a sharp twist while bumping his shoulder into the wooden door; he smirked as the door opened with a dull click – the door was old and fairly easy to manipulate into opening. If only more burglars used their brains, they could avoid so much hassle and mess. He didn't make a habit of breaking and entering, but he wasn't about to give himself in and allow Molly to think he had gone soft. He needed to think up a good enough reason as to why he would return. Closing the door silently behind him, he turned ready to take the stairs and plan a little speech.

As he turned however, Sherlock's eyes drank in the red smudges on the wallpaper leading down the stairs, the scuff marks of shoes on the wooden steps. Blood running cold, Sherlock moved in closer, stepping over the obvious evidence to inspect the smudges – they were most certainly blood, and from the small rises at the top of the staircase, he would have to assume that they were hand prints. But from who's hand, he could not decipher – or perhaps, to be more accurate, didn't want to decipher. The logical side of Sherlock's mind reminded him that the size of the hand indicated that it was female, and by the amount of blood and the fact that it was clearly done to leave a mark and evidence, indicated that it could only be one person in this building; Molly Hooper.

Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Sherlock released a sigh of frustration and turned quickly, bolting through the entrance and scanning the street – not a thing out of place; which meant that she wasn't dragged away, they had transport. Walking to the curb, Sherlock crouched down, seeing the tire marks on the asphalt; the driver had sped off quickly. Judging by the size of the marks, it was a four by four, possibly a jeep or land rover. Lowering his head, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose before pulling himself to his feet, wandering over to a phone box and dialling the number of the D.I. which he had hoped never to bother again.

He answered after two rings, "Detective Inspector Lestrade, how can I help?" His voice was music to Sherlock's ears, he needed help. He knew that he could find the attacker on his own but it would take too long, he needed Lestrade's team and he needed to find Molly before it was too late.

"Lestrade, it's me." Sherlock was cut off by a gasp from the other end of the phone, but he quickly cut in before the inspector could berate him. "It's Molly, she's missing. I need you and your forensics team to come to her flat immediately. I will explain everything in due time, but right now you need to do as I say." Sherlock held his breath, listening as the man sighed in frustration. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but Sherlock was desperate as he uttered a word which was rather foreign to his vocabulary, "Please."

Sherlock sat waiting on the door step, his mind telling him to go into the flat and check everything over, find evidence which nobody else would see. However, another part of him was afraid of what he would find in there, the place that he had only an hour ago vacated. When he had been there, everything was in place, Molly was safe and Sherlock was blissfully unaware that it may be the last time he saw her. Clenching his fists, Sherlock tried to ignore the images of her lifeless body in some sort of basement, lights flickering, cold floors and a brutal killer looming over the corpse.

Sherlock was pulled from his agonising mind when the blue flashing lights reached his eyes. Releasing a long sigh, he pushed off the door step and stood to his full height, waiting for the inevitable wearing down from the often hot headed Inspector.

Lestrade jumped out of the car as it pulled up to the curb, nodding his head toward the tall man standing before the front door, before turning to order his men to remain in the vehicles until he had seen the crime scene. Sherlock watched, rather befuddled as the Inspector walked past him and through the door, asking questions and looking over his shoulder, as though nothing had transpired over the months of his 'death'.

"How long has she been missing?" Lestrade's voice was controlled and full of authority; he was in full Detective mode.

"At the very least it's been thirty five minutes, an hour at max." Sherlock spoke clinically; his eyes however remained trained on the hand smear as they walked up the stairs.

Lestrade turned as he approached her open door, noticing the worry in Sherlock's eyes. "They won't kill her Sherlock, they must have taken her alive for something, and it would defeat the object if they murdered her now. They want something." He had never before felt the need to comfort the emotionally stunted man, but even behind the impassive expression he could tell that Sherlock was concerned. It wasn't just in his eyes, but in the way he walked, not with purpose as he usually did, but as a man condemned, a man afraid to take another step.

Sherlock stiffened as Lestrade mentioned murder. Molly didn't deserve this. Even if they didn't kill her, she would be afraid and alone and that just didn't seem to be sinking in. He needed to find her and quickly. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock strode through the door, seeing the coffee table knocked out of place and the small pool of blood below it; Molly had pulled away from her attacker, possibly losing her balance and hitting her head against the corner of the table – which explained the small amount of blood. She must have known to fear them, to try to get away from them abruptly.

Ignoring the Inspector, Sherlock followed more red hand prints toward the kitchen, his heart sinking as he saw the scattered knives on the tiled floor. None were dripping with blood and only one had red fingerprints on them; Molly had tried to fend off her attacker with a weapon. Good girl.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he once again cursed himself for leaving her. Why hadn't he stayed? Why? What was so fantastic about wandering the country alone? Growling in anger Sherlock turned on his heel, following the small splashes of blood leading to the bedroom. His heart sank in dreaded anticipation of what he might find.

Lestrade followed Sherlock, he too afraid of what they may discover and what the Consulting Detective would do next. Looking over Sherlock's shoulder he saw that the bed sheets had been pulled from the bed, strewn on the floor with a slight smear of blood. Lestrade did not notice as Sherlock picked up the vial from the dresser top and slid it into his pocket. Sherlock had a feeling that he may need it, the chemical compound which had never been used.

"Tell your men they can come in, I need to go home." Sherlock's voice was void, his eyes glazing over as he pushed past Lestrade, in an obvious rush to get out of the place.

Lestrade followed quickly, hand grasping the taller man's shoulder, forcing him to halt and turn. "Look Sherlock, John didn't take it all too well, he has been distant. Please don't be – you know – yourself." He spoke tentatively, watching the frustration roll through the clearly worried man before him.

Sherlock shrugged off his hand absently, "I don't have time to be gentle Lestrade, Molly is missing and I need John. I will do my _apologies_ and explanations after she is back and safe. Now do your job and leave me to do mine." His voice was deadly as he scowled down at the Inspector, his eyes piercing before he stormed from the flat, his eyes trained on the floor as he rushed down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the sight of her blood.

After the long cab drive, Sherlock wasted no time as he slipped the all too familiar key into the lock and pushed the heavy black door open. He relished in the comfortable scents and atmosphere of his home. Striding into the entrance and closing the door, he took the steps two at a time, eager to both see his friend and try to solve the mystery.

Sherlock steeled himself as he opened the door; he was ready for the onslaught of emotions. However he was surprised as he pushed the door open and found John and Mrs Hudson sat on the couch, three cups of tea on the table. "Lestrade rang, what can we do to help? Are there any suspects?" John's voice was steady and strong but Sherlock could detect the waver, and judging by the clenched fists at his sides, John was holding back his anger.

Sherlock gave a slight nod before picking up the cup closest to him. "I need to bounce ideas off you. I don't know who it could be, but they are keeping her alive for a reason. We need to figure that out. I need to find her, John. Molly helped me, she saved my life." Sherlock's jaw clenched yet again, his muscles clenching tightly before he finally let go, spinning around, his arm pulled back before he threw the china cup against the wall behind him. "I should have stayed with her! I could have protected her!"

Sherlock flinched slightly as he felt John's hand gently touch his shoulder. "We will find her Sherlock. But you need to calm down and think clearly. You can't help her by destroying the flat." John gave his friend a slight pat on the shoulder before moving to the kitchen to find the dustpan and brush. He would forget about the months past – for now. John had never seen Sherlock strung to tightly before, he was obviously harbouring a lot of feelings for the pathologist. He only hoped that they could bring her back to him; it would be nice to see Sherlock happy for once.

Sherlock turned to see Mrs Hudson; shoulders hunched slightly, head down cast as she sobbed quietly. Without saying a word, Sherlock moved to sit by the elderly lady, draping his arm gently around her shoulders and giving her a slightly awkward hug. She didn't respond right away, her fingers locking and unlocking in her lap. "Oh Sherlock, I thought you were dead - we all did and now this - Molly the poor girl. She was lovely at the funeral; looking after me and John. Please find her Sherlock." She finished with a shuddering breath, her small body rocking with the force of her silent sobs. Sherlock didn't reply, simply held her in silence, praying that he could find her.

John re-entered the room, observing the scene before him. They didn't have time for this, John knew that in most cases they had twenty four hours, they needed to get a move on if they hoped to find her relatively unscathed. Dropping the dustpan and brush, John walked over to the table, arms crossed as he observed Sherlock. "Right, so you've been with her this whole time?"

Sherlock glared at the man before him, ready to defend himself, however John carried on. "I'm not starting an argument Sherlock. But if you have been there this whole time, then you must have noticed things. Did she get any odd calls? Did anything bizarre happen? Is she being harassed in some way?" John had begun pacing, finger pressed to his bottom lip in concentration.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, untangling himself from a now alert Mrs Hudson, he stood and joined the pacing. Anything strange? Oh – "Her cat is missing. She was worried but then with all the stress, she must have forgotten. But that could mean that somebody took her cat, perhaps as a warning. But who would take her cat? It would have to be somebody that knew her well enough to know her adoration of the creature."

John began nodding his head, "yes that could be a clue. But who the he-" he stopped quickly as the sound of his laptop bleeping rang through the flat. Sherlock and John both turned to the offending object, eyebrows drawn together as they saw the screen spring to life, a small envelope dancing in the centre. John shook his head, thinking that it was probably just junk mail and turned back to Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak when another beep rang from the laptop, the envelope developing a number two in the corner.

Sherlock was faster than John as he simply wanted to shut the retched thing up. Quickly clicking on the message, his heart faltered slightly as he saw the messages. The first of which read, 'I think I have something of yours' and the second 'Don't ignore me, it's dreadfully rude.' Sherlock could feel John behind him, "Sherlock, the first message has a file attached to it." His voice was slightly panicked as his mind ran through the possibilities.

Sherlock set his jaw stubbornly and clicked on the file, waiting impatiently for it to download, growing slightly fearful as a video popped up onto the screen and began to play. Both John and Sherlock held their breath as the video began, at first it was slightly out of focus, only smudges of white and black. When the image finally cleared Sherlock's fists clenched in indignation while John blushed profusely, eyes diverting from the screen. It was a video of him and Molly, wrapped up in her bed sheets, Molly's head rolling back as she moaned his name. Before he could switch it off however, the clip changed. John spluttered when the image of Moriarty sprang to the screen, a cruel smile set in place as he spoke to the camera. "Did I fool you? Oh Sherlock, you disappoint me! Did you really think that you were the only one who could fake your own death? I think I did a more convincing performance, but hey, you did your best. And all with a little help from our little Molls." His smile turned sadistic as he turned the camera, setting it onto the blood stained face of Molly Hooper.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, his fingers drawing up and pressing to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as the tears fell down her face. "Go on Molly. Say hi!" Sherlock analysed her face slowly, making a mental note of each and every mark, the bruise under her eye, the blood trickling down her nose, bust lip and by the off set of her jaw, he'd say that was fractured as well.

The tears were falling rapidly down her puffy cheeks, her hair sticking to the blood and sweat on her forehead. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Her whispered words were barely audible as her swollen lips moved sluggishly. Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he saw the hand fly across her cheek with a resounding crack before the picture went black.


	9. Saviour

**A/N - Hello you wonderful people who make writing this fic such a pleasure :] I just want to say thank you all so much for the reviews, they keep me going and make me smile :] **

**This chapter is a little uhm distressing for Molly, and now there is only one chapter to go before its finished, but not to worry, the sequel is ready to go :] I know the fic is short but I wanted it short and sweet so it wasn't too daunting to read :] but it will be carried on and Sherlock and Molly will have a chance to explore their relationship :] **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Nine

Saviour

Molly stood motionless for several seconds as her brain tried to catch up with the scene before her; Jim was back, standing at her door. He didn't look anything like before, his hair was now combed perfectly to the side, a fitted suit complimenting the contours of his body and his once gentle eyes were now a mixture of insanity and amusement. Molly made an involuntary squeak in the back of her throat as the danger of the situation dawned on her.

"I missed you, Molly." He whispered as his hand slid toward her folded arms.

Recoiling in disgust, Molly's eyes flew open as she fell backwards. She tried to twist her body in order to catch herself before she hit the ground, however she was too late, and the side of her head collided painfully into the coffee table. Her fragile body crumpling as it slammed into the ground. Blinking several times, Molly tried to clear her blurred vision, but it didn't help, she was still seeing double.

With a frown, Molly reached a tentative hand toward the side of her head, wincing as her fingers came in contact with the tender flesh. Pulling her hand away slowly, she almost gagged when she saw the crimson fluid trailing down her fingers. Swallowing the bile and trying to push back the dark haze, Molly shivered as she heard the mocking laughter from the doorway and his ominous footsteps approaching.

Scrambling onto all fours, Molly shuffled gracelessly to the kitchen. Her blood soaked hand slipping on the tile floor as she made her way to the sink, eyes targeting the knives in the wooden block. Digging deep for energy, Molly grasped the handle of the cupboard below the sink and pulled herself upright, grabbing the largest knife and tugging. Molly cringed at her clumsiness, watching the knifes scatter around her prone form. Her grip tightened on the largest knife as Jim approached, his eyes set intently on her; he seemed undeterred by her choice of weapon.

The blood from her wound was now trailing down her face, the thick fluid making her feel sick to the stomach. The pain from her head was distracting Molly from the dangerous man before her. Of its own accord the hand holding the knife began to loosen, the shiny metal object slipping from her grasp.

Jim began to tut slowly, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Oh Molly, What a mess you've made. Unfortunately head wounds will do that to you; make you weak and _pathetic_." He spat the last word, causing Molly to visibly flinch. "Now, we need to have a little chat." With that said, Jim roughly gripped the back of Molly's hair, tugging her across the tiled floor, through the living room toward the bedroom. Molly began to feel real fear as he kicked the door open and threw her to the floor.

"So, I was that bad huh?" Jim whispered dangerously, his eyes roaming around the room as he stroked his chin. "You threw out the bed sheets? Got a new bed? Why? Because you didn't enjoy it? No that's not it; you loved it. I know you did, because I've been with _whores_ before Molly and I know when they fake it. You didn't. So what, you threw them out because you were ashamed? That hurts my feelings. I was nice to you, Molly Hooper. Not many people can brag about that, but you could."

Molly gasped as Jim lunged, his hand wrapping around her throat as he stared into her eyes. "He was never nice to you. But I don't see you ashamed that you fucked him." His voice was still eerily calm as he tugged the bed covers off the bed and pushing them into her face. "If you love him so much, you shouldn't have brought him here. I've been watching you, Molly. And now I know where his heart lies."

With those words Jim pushed the bed sheets aside, his hand still encircling Molly's throat as he pulled her to her feet. Molly saw her opportunity as his back was turned, pushing against his back roughly; she almost smiled as she watched him fall to his knees. Releasing a sigh, Molly dashed past him, running for the door. With one glance back to make sure he was still on his knees, Molly made it to the door only to slam into a tall man's chest. Molly tried to scream as he placed a piece of thick black fabric over her mouth and tied it behind her head, effectively silencing her panic.

Tears began to stream down her face as the blond man threw her over his shoulder, making his way to the stairs. Sobbing openly, all Molly could think about was Sherlock. She wished that she had made him stay. Perhaps he could have saved her – of course he could have. As they began to descend the stairs, Molly had a brainwave, swiping the remaining blood from her face; she pressed her hand against the wallpaper, smiling at the crimson smear of obvious evidence. If she couldn't scream then she would leave a mark, a clear mark.

Molly's eyes widened as Jim appeared before her, a scowl on his face as he observed her marking. The last thing she saw was his fist approaching her face before the pain shot up through her skull and everything went black.

Molly awoke slowly, however she felt it best to keep her eyes closed. Her mouth wasn't very dry so she couldn't have been unconscious for too long. She remained as still as possible, listening to her surroundings. Molly knew that she was tied up - probably to a chair – because she could feel the rope against her skin, rubbing painfully and forcing her upright against the hard back of the chair. She slowly tensed the muscles of her face, inwardly wincing when she felt both the pain in her jaw and a new throb above her eye simultaneously. One of them must have hit her again for good measure. Molly could feel the dried blood on her face – she must have looked a state.

Forcing herself to concentrate, Molly tried to remember the other man's face and any details in case she did make it out of this. He was tall, muscular and blonde. He was wearing a dark t-shirt and trousers to match. She couldn't remember anything else, no marking or the colour of his eyes.

Molly's ears pricked as she heard a small beeping sound, then the sound of Jim's cruel voice as it filled the air. "Did I fool you? Oh Sherlock, you disappoint me! Did you really think that you were the only one who could fake your own death? I think I did a more convincing performance, but hey, you did your best. And all with a little help from our little Molls." Molly opened her eyes to see the camera now turned to her; so he was going to taunt Sherlock – _how mature_.

After the humiliation of being recorded while Jim slapped her, Molly sat quietly, eyes trained on the ground as Jim fiddled with a laptop, informing her that he was sending the footage to her 'dear old Sherlock Holmes'. Even though she was terrified and alone with a complete psychopath, Molly did not regret her decision to help Sherlock; because of him people were alive, he was a hero. Molly was willing to be a sacrificial part of his tale if it meant that he could carry on, solving crimes and helping people. He may not have done it conventionally, but he still got the job done.

She wasn't used to being in the dark, knowing someone was out there – but then again, who was? She could feel him moving; he would occasionally tap or move things, as though trying to scare her. Deciding that she was done playing the victim, Molly's head rose, jaw set stubbornly even with the pain of the obvious fracture. "If you're going to do it, then just get it over with. You can't possibly need me for anything further."

Molly's brave words were met with condescending laughter. "Oh Molly, dear sweet Molly, you my dear are going to perform the masterpiece of my play; you're going to die." Molly's face fell as a bright light lit the room, unveiling Jim as he approached her slowly with a small syringe.

Sherlock sat with his back to John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, he was still staring at the blank computer screen. He did not have to replay the clip; it was playing in his mind, the marks on her face clearer each time, the sadness in her voice and terror in her eyes. He was searching for clues, he had to stop focusing on Molly – she was not the clue, she was the victim, the distraction.

John had to keep holding his hand up to silence Lestrade; John knew that when Sherlock was concentrating, it was rather foolish to interrupt. He was probably rooting through his mind palace. Lestrade turned his angry gaze to john. "We don't have time for this; can I at least see the footage?"

John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off quickly by Sherlock. "I'm not deaf, Lestrade. Take the laptop, I don't need it. But I can assure you that you won't see anything that _I_ haven't." With a sneer, Sherlock picked up the laptop and almost threw it at the Inspector, causing John to gasp slightly before biting his tongue. "When he wants us to find them he will tell us. Until then it's just a waste of time. It will be somewhere obvious and probably a place I visit frequently but never really-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, standing abruptly and grabbing his jacket. "Somewhere that I would never think of, somewhere meaningless." He spoke with enthusiasm as he walked toward the door, both John and Lestrade following with puzzled expressions. "St Barts. Christ you two are slow; how do you manage to get dressed in the morning?" With that last insult he bounded down the stairs, hearing John behind him, phone bleeping incessantly in the background.

"Sherlock it's him – he says 'well done' and that we 'had better hurry if we want to catch the show'. He's one step ahead each time, I don't like this." John's voice held a slight waver as he followed Sherlock out into the street, Lestrade behind him calling in reinforcement to the hospital. Sherlock hailed a cab and ignored both men as they hopped into the closest one, all barking out the destination and telling the man to be quick about it.

John watched as Lestrade rang number after number on one side of him, while Sherlock sat on the other twitching furiously in his seat. "We're too late John. I can feel it." Sherlock continued to stare out the window as he confessed his fears. This would be the longest cab ride of his life and in all reality he didn't want it to end; he had dragged Molly into this and practically signed her death warrant. Jim would not give in easily; allow her to live – what would he gain from that. He had mentioned a performance, obviously he was hoping to make a big scene, and with criminals they usually involved blood and death.

John threw some money at the cabbie as he pulled over. Sherlock silently thanked the man for taking charge. Stepping out of the black cab, all three men stood rather dumb founded for a moment as they drank in the scene. There was a large crowd of people, an ambulance with paramedics rushing toward the crowd and police sirens blaring. Sherlock's feet began to move, his mind drifting slightly as the pieces began to fit properly together. The crowd of people parted slightly to reveal a body covered with a large black coat and blood. Adrenaline flowed through his veins as Sherlock dashed forwards, shoving the people out of the way in time to see the paramedics preparing the defibrillators.

Sherlock glanced from the paramedic to the body, his eyes catching sight of her dark brown eyes as they stared blankly, her brown hair matted with blood and face pale. Dropping down onto his knees, the noise from the crowd ebbed into nothingness as he reached out to take her limp hand, feeling for a pulse – nothing.

Closing his eyes tightly, he briefly wondered why she was dressed in a large black coat. Molly was in the exact same spot as Sherlock had been when he faked his death, the same blood pattern and position. He remembered preparing for the fall with Molly's help and how scared she had been that he was using their chemical compound. Sherlock's eyes snapped open in horror as the paramedic moved to place the defibrillators onto her chest. Gasping he shoved the paramedic out of the way, forcing the man onto his back. "John, I need a syringe. Now!" Glancing back, he saw a spluttering John as he rushed for the ambulance.

Lowering his head gently, Sherlock pressed his ear against her chest. After a few seconds of dreaded silence, he heard the sluggish sound of her heart trying to beat. He had experienced this; being trapped inside his own body while the chemicals flowed freely through his system. "It's going to be okay Molly. I have the antidote." Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the ampule of clear fluid, giving it a slight shake and then looking to find John who was now making his way over to them, syringe in hand.

Panting slightly, John handed over the syringe and watched with curiosity as Sherlock cracked open the ampule and pulled the fluid into the syringe – a year ago he would have voiced his concern, however now he just trusted that Sherlock knew what he was doing. John flinched as he plunged the needle into Molly's chest after checking for the right spot. Sherlock sat back on his heels as he waited, hoping that too much time had not passed and hating the fact that he had never actually tested the god-for-saken chemical compound on himself.

Molly could feel her lungs burn as she dragged in air, her eyes watering as they finally fluttered closed. Her body ached all over as she tried – and failed – to move. The mist drifted slowly from her mind as she tried to collect herself. She had to remember what had happened – but she couldn't, everything was hazy. All she could feel was fear as it gripped her heart, clenching around her until she couldn't breathe.

With stuttering recollection she saw his face blink before her eyes, that smug smile, the syringe, the searing pain and then darkness. Gasping, she threw herself upright, eyes blinking furiously as she looked around. There were so many faces, faces that she did not recognise. Then Molly saw him, she knew he'd find her. Sherlock's face was contorted in a mixture of pain and relief; Molly was alive, but it had been a close call. Renching a sob from her throat Molly collapsed into him, her hands clutching at his coat as she tried to stay conscious.


	10. Just for a Moment

**A/N - Hello! this is the last chapter of Echo, there will be a sequel - Shadow - coming out very soon. This is - at least for me - a nice way to round up the story :] I hope you like it and would just like to thank you all for your kind reviews and for reading this fic, you are all very lovely and I probably would have stopped writing if it weren't for you guys :] **

**Enjoy!**

**Oh and slight fluff in this chapter - yes, from Sherlock.**

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><p><span>Echo<span>

Chapter Ten

Just for a Moment

John stood watching the scene play out before him – he had never seen Sherlock look so relieved, so vulnerable. He tilted his head slightly as Sherlock closed his eyes, releasing a long sigh, his chin propped up on top of Molly's head. Both men noticed her body go limp as she passed out in the Consulting Detectives arms. Sherlock was not all too surprised; she had been through a great deal and would need to rest.

Sherlock raised a brow questioningly as the paramedics strode over with a stretcher. "You honestly thought that I would allow you to take her, when neither of you were competent enough to realise that she was still alive. Do they not teach you to check for a pulse at University?" John gave the paramedics a small nod as they looked at him for confirmation – after discovering he was in fact a doctor; they saw him as having more authority.

With a stern nod Sherlock picked up Molly and took her into the hospital, he remained by her bedside, fingers in a triangle beneath his chin as he watched the nurses busy themselves around her, placing IV's into her arms and placing small pads to her chest. As soon as the monitors came on, Sherlock turned his attention to them, mentally taking the readings and storing them away. Giving Sherlock no mind, the nurses left the room.

His attention was finally caught as Sherlock and Lestrade shuffled by the door, John scowling slightly while Lestrade gave him a confused glare. With a heavy sigh Sherlock told them what they were dying to know. "Moriarty must have known my plan – perhaps he has been listening to my conversations from the beginning. He injected Molly with the same compound that we both developed in the lab; the one which slowed my heart enough for me to appear dead. He placed Molly in the same position to mock me, to show me how _clever_ he is." Sherlock scowled, turning his gaze back to Molly in the hospital bed. "We also created the antidote which was supposed to be given afterward when I was safe in the morgue with Molly, however the paramedics tried to revive me, which effectively caused me to die – for real. Molly had to resuscitate me - took her a while too." His voice had gone from strong to rather wistful as he stared at her prone form.

John huffed slightly, fighting the urge to argue with the stubborn man before him. He was furious with Sherlock, but knew that it wouldn't be good for Molly to wake up to loud noises and seeing the man she adored having his nose broken. So instead of saying what he wanted, John settled for a simple, "She's very lucky that we got there in time. She is going to be alright Sherlock." John tried to reassure the usually calm and collected man, who was now tapping his fingers impatiently.

"I know." Sherlock muttered condescendingly.

John gritted his teeth. "You don't have to be such a dick, Sherlock. I'm trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to help; that's what friends do." His words raised louder, his hands turning to fists at his side. "You know what Sherlock-"

"What, what John? What's so bloody important right now?" Sherlock rose from his seat, approaching the shorter man as he rose to full height – obviously trying to appear dominating.

"I went back to –" John was cut off abruptly as Molly began to cough, her eyes opening slowly as she awoke. Sherlock turned immediately, forgetting his conversation with John instantly.

Sherlock strode quickly to the bed side, standing awkwardly as he watched her glazed over eyes begin to focus slowly. Molly's breath caught in her throat as the memories returned, her eyes swimming with tears as she finally focused onto Sherlock's tense features. "You figured it out." Her voice was croaky as she gave him a watery smile, her small hand reaching to cover her heart – she could already feel the black bruise from the needle. John and Lestrade moved further into the room, catching her attention and gaining a soft smile. Turning back to Sherlock her smile faltered slightly. "He assured me that you wouldn't solve the puzzle. He was so arrogant."

Sherlock merely nodded, his eyebrows pulled together as he stared down at the pathologist. Molly's large brown eyes remained trained on him as she tried to figure out what had changed; he looked different.

John and Lestrade could sense the tension in the room and opted to leave after wishing Molly a full recovery.

Molly looked Sherlock up and down, her face screwing up slightly as she remembered the last time she had seen him; he had left her. Shaking her head lightly, Molly refocused. "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

His face finally seemed to change, his eyes unlocking as he glanced at the monitors. "I doubted myself today Molly, for the first time." He did not look at her as he continued to speak. "It seems to be a recurring thing when it comes to you; I went against what I wanted to do when I left. I wanted to stay, but went against it. I'm not usually the kind of man to second guess myself." Sherlock finally turned his gaze back to Molly as she lay in the hospital bed, dried blood still marking her face. "I am sorry, Molly." With that he leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

Molly reacted quickly, her hand gripping his coat collar as she tugged his mouth toward hers. Sherlock held himself stiffly, his lips barely touching hers. With a confused expression he asked, "Molly what are you doing?"

"Can't we be selfish Sherlock, just for a moment?" Molly's voice was pleading as her other hand slid up his arm and into his hair.

With a long sigh Sherlock murmured, "just for a moment," before pressing his lips to hers in a gentle kiss.


End file.
